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■» 4 



BARBARA 




A ROMANCE OF THE LOWER SANDUSKY VALLEY 


A Tale of the War of 1812 and 1813 


BY 

Major Clinton 


Author of "Withered Leaves." "An Ohio CamDaign." "How He Won 
the Flag,” and Other Short Stories. 



PEN.ORAWIMGS BY LOUlf? KJNDT. 

t;. >3> ) )>>)) 

3 3 3)33 >) 3 ) 3>>3 33 > 


3 ) 
3 3 






FRANK C. GULLEY 

PUBLISHER 

Kenosha, Wis. 


?Z-3 

:b 


THE UI8RARY OF 

gowgress, 

Two O0HC8 REcevcD 

IAN. 0 1902 

Gopywokt orrev 
CLASS (j^?>XXa Ho. 

q ^ ! 2» 

COPY a 


Copyright, 1901, 

BY 


FRANK C. GULLEY 



TO MY MOTHER. 

PV^o, in my boyhood days^ dispelled many a 
gloomy hour with her stories of the early times in 
Ohio and the Lower Sandusky Valley ^ and of the 
intrigues of the white man^ and of the good and 
bad traits of the Indian — to her memory^ through 
the love of her oldest son, this voluyne is dedicated, 
with the hope that in her spirit life she may hear 
the echoings of this story, now re-told. 

THE AUTHOR. 



JU^T A WORD 


H istory — that which tells of the struggles that 
have made the United States the greatest 
nation of the earth — has been written, and 
rewritten, so often that the author of this little vol- 
ume could not find the courage, if he would, to 
attempt to repeat the story. Only as a romance, pure 
and simple, does he presume to offer it to the reading 
public. It is only a grouping together of a series of 
incidents, as they occurred, at a time when the San- 
dusky Valley was yet the home of the Indian. Histor- 
ical facts are kept intact, and given as they transpired. 
And, while all the incidents herein related were actual 
occurrences, names are so changed as to leave all, 
even some of the ones most familiar with those early 
days, much in doubt as to who the real characters 
were. They did exist, they did occur, and were then 
a part of the early history of the “Beautiful Valley. ” 
In their day this story was familiar to them all, yet 
lacked the glamour that years have since cast around 
and about it all. 

THE AUTHOR. 


6 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER. page. 

I. The Inhabitants of the Sandusky Valley 11 

II. Governor St. Clair and General Wayne’s Cam- 
paigns 25 

III. Barbara, the Beaumonts, and Their Home 43 

IV. General Harrison’s Campaign — Lieutenant Bev- 

eridge as His Scout 64 

V. The Lieutenant Meets Barbara in a Strange Man- 

ner 76 

VI. His Introduction to a Strange People 108 

VII. His Convalescence and His Courtship 129 

VIII. Beveridge Starts on His Long Journey to the Army 151 

IX. The Tedious Journey and Arrival at Camp 164 

X. Strange Events in and about Fort Stephenson 180 

XL Beveridge in the Army and at His Kentucky Home 197 

XII. Winter of 1812 and 1813 in the Lower Sandusky 

Valley 210 

XIII. Spring Campaign Opens — Beveridge in the Army 

Again 237 

XIV. Barbara and Beveridge Meet Again Beneath the 

Grapevine 261 

XV. Beaumont Acts as a Spy in Canada 283 

XVI. Major Croghan— Beveridge Captured by the Indians 290 

XVII. Lone Arrow on the Trail — the Rescue and Struggle 303 
XVIII. Siege of Fort Stephenson — the Victory — the Great 

Ride 324 

XIX. The Great Bereavement that Came to Barbara .... 346 
XX. Marriage of Beveridge and Barbara— Their Depart- 
ure 367 

The Briefest Hint at all the Mystery — a Sad History 379 
7 


XXL 



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ILLUSTRATION'S. 


PAGE. 

Barbara Beaumont . .Frontispiece 

The Old Stockade 30 

Lone Arrow 39 

The Beaumont Home 46 

Barbara at the Blue Banks 62 

Trip Through the Forest 172 

Lieutenant Beveridge I99 

Fort Stephenson as Completed in 1813 241 

Beneath the Grape Vine Tree 267 

The Ride to the Fort 336 



CHAPTER ONE. 


“Beautiful Valley! Through whose verdant meads, 
Unheard, the dusky Indian glides along. ♦ * * * 
No hoof -beat breaks the stillness of the air, — 
warrior’s camps are found; 

The Valley, in its loveliness so fair, 

Keeps on its peaceful round.” 

— Longfellow, 


It must not be permitted! The woman who laid 
claim to the child is dead, and it* is ours as much as 
theirs! Why, if I had a home, like yours, for 
instance, or if it were possible for me to do it, the child 
should never leave for such a life. But how can I! 
With you, it is different. You have the best and most 
comfortable home here in the valley, and it is child- 
less, notwithstanding your circumstances. Take the 
little one into your hearts, and in a few short years it 
will prove a blessing to you, and a joy and comfort to 
the wife. It will brighten many an hour in your 
otherwise lonely lives, bring sunshine where shadows 
now linger, and give a life to the home it can in no 
other way acquire. 1 know you will never regret 
having done it. It is for you to say, first; then, if 

11 


12 


BARBARA : 


not you, some one else. But I prefer that you should 
receive the blessing. ’ ’ 

Thus spoke a man of medium build and robust 
form ; one clad in the evident garb of a priest ; one 
whose face fairly beamed with an intellectual love for 
his fellow-man, and whose every expression gave 
token of a firm determination to carry into effect his 
fixed intentions. The one addressed had all the 
appearance of a man inured to the hardships of a 
frontier life; was dressed in a rough costume, made 
for comfort and durability, and with little thought as 
to style or fit — all so familiar and befitting the 
pioneer. He was a large man, rough, rugged, and 
swarthy of complexion. In short, seemingly one of 
those great, sinewy creatures who, knowing their 
wonderful muscular strength, are possessed of that 
other accompanying peculiarity of nature, whole- 
souled good humor, that subdues and overcomes their 
physical powers, and keeps them dormant and inactive, 
until, by some overt act, they are brought into full and 
sudden action. 

“Yes, it certainly would be a terrible sin to permit 
the child to go back with them— in fact, would appear 
very much like a crime, — especially when, by the 
words of the squaw, as well as by the general appear- 
ance of the little one itself, there can be no doubt but 
that it has been stolen. I shall hate to make up my 
mind to keep the child, and then have them refuse, 
for that would mean trouble. And if we should get 
possession of it, and then, in a few short months or 
years, after we had learned to love it, have to give it 
up again, that would be doubly hard.” 


BARBARA: 


13 


“Yes; but suppose it had been your child that had 
been spirited away — taken from you, you knew not 
how! Just think how you would feel, if a kind provi- 
dence had made it possible for some good soul to 
rescue it, as it now seems possible for us to do, from 
a fate far worse than bondage, and they had failed 
to do it! Now, suppose you rescue it, and in the 
months or years to come it were made possible to 
restore it to the grief- stricken parents, would not the 
reward be great enough to overcome all regrets at the 
parting! Besides, there is one who has said: ‘As ye 
have done it unto one of these, the least of my chil- 
dren, so have you done it unto me. ’ I tell you, Beau- 
mont, the reward would be too great to leave any 
regrets behind, no matter what the final outcome 
might be. 

“Well, I will try it!” exclaimed the trapper (or 
whatever he. might be) to whom the priest had 
spoken. “But suppose they should refuse to give her 
up! I have never crossed them, not dealt unfairly 
with them, yet.” 

“1 think they will be willing, especially if we deal 
fair and open with tliem, as we always have. It was 
made evident to my mind, from the talk of the squaw 
mother, that the tribe cared very little what became 
of it, and that she, squaw as she was, had taken it 
when first she saw it, for the motherly love she had in 
her soul. ” 

“Did she give you any clue to its birth, or to its 
parentage— anything we might work on— or of the 
medal about its neck? Did she say any word that 
might possibly lead to a solution of the great wrong?” 


14 


BARBARA: 


“She undoubtedly told me all she knew; but that 
was all so vague— nothing definite in it. No, she 
told me nothing, except what I have already related 
to you. But we must not permit the wrong to go on ! 
May the heavenly Father give us some power to pre- 
vent it!” 

“Well, you can have as much influence with them 
as any one I know. If you will use your good offices, 
then, with what persuasions I may be able to offer, 
we may together succeed in getting them to leave her 
with us, for a time, at least. Already the heart of the 
wife is completely wrapped up in the child, for I 
heard her calling it ‘Little Golden Hair’ but a few 
moments ago.” 

‘‘May the good Lord grant me the power to influ- 
ence their minds. I feel it is a duty I owe to Him to 
rescue this little waif from a life of ignorance and 
degradation ! Beaumont, I tell you, we must not fail ! ’ ’ 

This conversation, all of it in French, had been 
carried on by these two men— the priest and the trap- 
per— as they stood on the porch of a log house, late in 
the afternoon of a September day, near the banks of 
the Sandusky river. It was in a region at that time 
possessed of but few settlers, and practically unknown, 
except to certain various tribes of Indians. Some of 
these had their homes along the banks of the stream, 
and others were in the habit of coming and going, up 
and down the great trail, as their fancies and their 
necessities required. Within the house, where the 
men stood and carried on their conversation, in low 
and subdued tones, was the ‘‘chamber of death.” 
There, on a rude board, covered with the “winding 


BARBARA : 


15 


sheet,” lay the lifeless form of a woman, whose fea- 
tures, when exposed to view, bespoke all too plainly 
the fact that she was an Indian squaw. 

The priest had performed for the dead the last 
functions of his holy calling, and now stood, cowl in 
hand, as if prepared to take his departure, but lingered 
yet for a few moments, evidently finishing a conver- 
sation that had been begun some time before. From 
the earnestness of their expressions, both of words 
and faces, and the subject spoken of, it was evidently 
one of the deepest interest to both of them. 

Talk with the wife about it, Beaumont; but say 
not a word to any one else, of all I have told you 
regarding the conversation with the squaw, or of our 
intentions,” resumed the priest, after a pause. “The 
tribe may return any day, now ; and until then we will 
keep our own counsel. I shall see you again in the 
morning, and hope you will be able then to give me 
your positive decision. ’ 

“That 1 can do now as well as then,” said the trap- 
per. “The feelings of the wife are too evident for 
any doubts there, and my mind is made up to save 
the child, if not in one way, then in another. You 
may depend on me for that.” 

“Then, indeed, will the heavenly Father bless and 
prosper you ! Good-night. ’ ’ 

And so saying, the priest, after shaking the hand 
of his companion, stepped off the porch, passed out of 
the inclosure, and soon disappeared, as he wended his 
way toward the hill, to the west of the house. 

The other stood there, where they had parted, 
looking after the receding figure, his mind filled with 


16 


BARBARA : 


the subject they had been discussing. In a few 
moments the priest had passed out of sight, and as the 
trapper turned to go inside, it could be seen by his 
firmly set features that his mind was made up, and 
that he had determined to carry out his plans. 

“I will do it! They must not take the child away 
with them! Not if I can help it! And I can and will, 
even if it has to be kidnapped!” 

Then he went inside the house, a home that had 
stood for many years on the banks of the Sandusky 
river, in a region full of historic romance and natural 
beauty. For, if ever there were a section of country, 
along the confines of any stream, anywhere in all the 
“Great Northwest,” that was filled to overflowing 
with history, ’romance, and poetic ideas; where the 
whole- air was resonant with sufferings and wrongs, 
songs and stories — all re-echoed by the birds of early 
spring; where the very soil itself gave forth the 
melancholy evidences of a long-forgotten people, then 
that region is the Sandusky Valley. From its origin, 
far up the country, down to where the waters of the his- 
toric river lose themselves in the waves of old Lake 
Erie, every foot of its shores cry out with the wailings 
of its innumerable tragedies, both grand and ignoble, 
until the wanderer along its banks becomes lost in the 
reveries that overcome the intellectual mind with 
their wonderful influences. 

For ages yet to come the poetic mind can find 
therein full scope for all its imaginings, while the his- 
torian and the lover of romance may still garner there- 
from legends of life and love, in the tales of valorous 
deeds of noble men, both white and red, and in the 


BARBARA : 


17 


patience, longings, and silent sufferings of tender- 
hearted women. All lost, now, all forgotten, save as 
the seeker after a knowledge of that mysterious past 
will delve down beneath the surface of to-day, and 
bring them forth to the light once more. 

It was the stories of these people — of their loves 
and their joys — of their sufferings and sorrows — that 
were told by anxious, loving mothers, many long 
years ago; told to their little groups of youthful 
listeners, in the dim glow of the old-fashioned fire- 
place ; all strange legends that had been told to them 
by their mothers, long years before, of a people that 
had lived here in the valley, and had long since passed 
away. They were all tales of the deeds and daring 
of the white man, or of the red man’s treachery, and 
of his noble acts to those who had befriended him ; 
stories of the white man’s intrigues and the Indian’s 
cunning, of war and peace — all intermingled, and 
to-day forming the foundation for much of romantic 
history, throughout the valley. 

From out of all these stories of the beautiful San- 
dusky Valley that were then poured into the attentive 
ears of the little family circle, none of them seemed 
more replete with the jo)’’s and sorrows of these long- 
ago romances, than those that had reference to that 
portion called “Lower Sandusky,’’ and where now 
rests and thrives that busy mart, known as the City 
of Fremont; where to-day tread the feet of the living 
multitudes, all unconscious of the generations that 
have been there before them and have now gone their 
way, forever. 

Whoever may have been the first to come here, and 
2 


18 


BARBARA: 


when — who can tell? Where they settled, and how 
they lived, none may say to-day. That they were 
here, their mounds, their moldering bones, and their 
crumbling homes, all too plainly told. Yet, like Long- 
fellow’s shadows, “they have vanished, and have been 
lost forever.” And like those who followed after, 
they found health, some happiness, and much poetic 
beauty in the “Sanduski” valley, while prosperity 
was ever in its soil and streams. 

The Sandusky river, on whose banks this story is 
located, and where the incidents herein related trans- 
pired, starts far up in what in earlier days was desig- 
nated as the homes of the Senecas, Wyandottes and 
Crawford Indians — lands occupied and owned by 
them, how long, no one can say; obtained, no doubt, 
by right of conquest with other tribes. As the river 
winds its way toward Lake Erie to the north, it is 
confined to its course by high, and, in some places, 
precipitous banks, broken here and there by creeks and 
inlets, by beautiful dells and lovely glades; all com- 
bining and presenting views full of the most magnifi- 
cent scenery, at every season of the year; and where, 
in summer times of long years ago, were to be found 
the most gorgeous and fragrant of wild flowers, in the 
greatest profusion. 

These high banks continue all along the stream, 
until within about five miles of the mouth of the 
river, where it empties into Lake Erie. 'There the 
bay spreads out over a great expanse of marshy soil, 
for miles in width, and save for the narrow channel, 
it is covered with immense rice fields. To these 
marshes, for seasons unknown, all the tribes of 


BARBARA : 19 

Indians, from far up the country, came once each 
year to gather of the bountiful crops of rice that grew 
there, and for which there was no contention, save 
with the wild fowl of the air, that sought the place in 
myriad thousands, and with the Indians claimed it as 
their feeding grounds. 

Along the banks of the river, up above these rice 
fields, on the higher grounds, were to be found in 
many places, as late as i86i, evidences of a race of 
people who had been possessed of a more than ordi- 
nary inclination toward, and a knowledge of, agricul- 
ture and horticulture. This was shown in many 
instances by the remains of primitive orchards, 
patches of improved grounds, as well as by the molder- 
ing ruins of some of their huts; all plainly showing 
the hand of some people with at least half-civilized 
ideas of such pursuits of life. 

Down the river from Fremont (which contains the 
site of- old Fort Stephenson, and what was originally 
known as ‘Old Lower Sandusky,” because it was at 
the lower rapids of the Sandusky river) was to be 
found in the early days a most extensive plum orchard. 
The trees had been set out with a regularity not 
formed by nature, plainly telling of the toil of some 
industrious people. A little farther up the stream 
was a vast apple orchard, of old, gnarled trees, show- 
ing great age, the fruit of which was seedless. The 
fruits gathered from the remnants of these orchards 
(and their remains were to be found in various places 
up and down the valley) were of the most excellent 
varieties. These, and other evidences of the ‘‘first 
settlers,” were quite numerous about Fremont in its 


20 


BARBARA : 


earliest days, and were to be easily noted by the close 
observer at very recent dates; while all about the 
borders of “Old Lower Sandusky, ” along the banks 
of the inlet streams, as late as the year 1850, were to 
be found the tottering and decaying ruins of the huts 
and homes of a later people, who had also completely 
passed away from the active scenes of the life and 
occupations they had followed. 

The river and all its inlet streams in those early 
days abounded with fish and game of all kinds, 
natural to the great inland lakes; while all along its 
source, where marshes were formed over the low 
lands, by the spring freshets, and in every creek, were 
to be found the otter, the mink, the musk-rat, and 
many other fur-bearing animals. Here in this valley, 
romantic in its native beauty, bountiful in its supply 
of wild game, fish, and food of all kinds (including at 
one time even the buffalo), for years untold and 
unknown, the red man had held full sway, unmolested 
and undisturbed in its possession. Up and down its 
banks these children of the forest had roamed at will, 
free and untrammeled. All along its borders they 
had hunted in peace. At what was known to them as 
the lower rapids, were the homes of the neutral nations, 
yet the Senecas, the Crawfords, the Delawares, the 
W3^andottes, and the Ottawas, all the tribes accessible 
to the great valley, gathered each year for their carni- 
val of sports. While the neutral nations claimed the 
lands as their homes, all these tribes were accorded 
the privilege of roaming up and down the stream at 
will, in search of fish and game. It was all theirs, to 
roam over and hunt through; theirs, in which to 


BARBARA : 


21 


gather their food, unmolested. There was enough and 
to spare, for all that came in search for it. During 
all this time, if the white man sought them in peace, 
then in peace he was met ; but woe to them who came 
in search of conquest, or to deceive them. 

One of the stories told by the Indians of the neutral 
nations, who had their homes on the east banks of the 
river, and that had been handed down from tribe to 
tribe, through all the years that had intervened, was 
that concerning the first white man that came to them 
there in the valley and became a trader. The man 
claimed to be a native of Poland, and that his name 
was “Sanduski,” and the Indians asserted that from 
him was derived the name of the Sandusky river. He 
was, they said, the first white man to come among 
them and settle; and, as he came in peace, in peace 
he had been met. Some years after his advent among 
them, he became enamored with a beautiful pale-faced 
daughter of one of thp chiefs of the neutral nations. 
He was persistent, in 1: j^ndeavors to win the love of 
the wild maiden, wh6, unfortunately for him, had 
already given her affections to one of the braves of 
the tribes on the west banks of the river. Enraged at 
her refusals of his love, the trader followed her one 
day, in one of her rambles along the banks of the 
stream, and overtaking her at the top of one of the 
high cliffs, attempted to force his amorous love upon 
her. She took to flight, to save her maiden honor, 
with the trader in close pursuit. He caught her near 
the edge of the high bank, and after a desperate 
struggle, in which he succeeded in accomplishing his 
designs, he pushed her off into the stream below. 


22 


BARBARA: 


For several days the disappearance of the beautiful 
squaw was a mystery. Search was made for her 
everywhere, among the other tribes of the valley, but 
nothing could be ascertained of her whereabouts. 
Finally, however, the body was found, lodged at the 
upper point of an island, about a mile down stream 
from the scene of the tragedy. In her hand was 
grasped a lock of hair, corresponding in color to that 
of the Polish trader. In an instant it was all plain to 
the Indian mind. She had been thrown into the 
stream and drowned (as her apparel plainly showed), 
after a desperate struggle. The guilty man did not 
wait to be accused; his conscience told him his life 
would be forfeited if he did, and he took to flight — 
where, no one knew. But he was speedily followed 
by the Indian lover and the brother. They kept hear- 
ing of him, here, then there, dodging from one loca- 
tion to another. At last they came upon him away 
down in the Virginia country. He heard of their 
coming, and attempted to evade them, but was over- 
taken and put to the most terrible torture the human 
mind can conceive — the skin being taken from his 
body an inch at a time. In the midst of his great 
agony he admitted his guilt, told where the dead 
squaw's trinkets might be found, and why he had 
committed the crime. After he had suffered long 
enough to satisfy the vengeance of his persecutors, 
the savage lover sank his tomahawk in his brain, and 
left the body there in the wilderness to be disposed of 
by wild beasts. His property at the post was confis- 
cated, and for years thereafter the trading store 
remained vacant, until a man named Beaumont came 
among them and re-established the business. 


BARBARA : 


23 


“This,” said the old chief, when he told the story 
of the wrong, “was our first experience with the white 
man. This was what he gave us for the confidence 
we had in him. This was his gratitude for all that 
my people had done for him, in often defending his 
rights against the avaricious dispositions of some who 
could, and would, have done him great wrongs, and 
placed his life in danger. This was his kindness to 
me and mine. Yet, for all that, we were asked to trust 
and believe the white man. And we did, and he grew 
rich from our labors. ’ ’ 

In this peaceful possession of the valley the Indians 
remained until after the first war for American inde- 
pendence. Until the French and English began to 
intrigue with them, and to set them against the white 
settlers, the tribes remained at peace with all. Then, 
when the American government set about obtaining 
grants of lands, through treaties with the Indians of 
the valley named, encouraged by the French and 
English, they began growing suspicious of the whites 
everywhere, and would no longer deal fairly, or keep 
their compacts in good faith. 

Until then, the entire great Northwest had all been 
theirs, unquestioned. From the Mississippi, all along 
the great lakes, it was their hunting grounds, by right 
of possession. Their braves had, for time untold, gone 
out to the other tribes, in peaceful conquest, in search 
of the squaws that would keep their wigwams, undis- 
turbed by any intruder. The valleys and the streams 
had resounded only with their own war cries. Their 
plaintive songs and lullaby refrains had echoed and 
re-echoed, from hill- top to hill-top, without the dis- 


24 


BARBARA : 


cordant note of the white man's voice, or the sharp 
crack of his rifle. 

Then came conquests and strifes. The valley, that 
for centuries had been so peaceful and quiet, so full 
of Indian romances, so fraught with the songs and 
stories of the red man, was to be torn asunder by 
war — bitter and hateful — between the white man and 
the Indian. It was to be a conquest for territory, a 
crowding back of the original owners, and the putting 
on them a restraint they had never known before, and 
which they could not, and would not, understand. 


CHAPTER TWO. 


Then wept the warrior chief, and bade 
Them shear his hoary locks away; 
And one by one, each heavy braid 
Before the victor lay. 

— Bryant. 


When Governor St. Clair set out, in the summer of 
1792, with an army of infantry, artillery, and mounted 
men, numbering something like two thousand strong, 
and penetrated deep into the wilderness, toward the 
great valleys of the Sandusky and Maumee rivers, it 
was with the intention of enforcing treaties that had 
been made only to be broken by the discontented 
warriors of the various tribes. He was met by an 
army greatly his superior in numbers and in skilled 
warfare, and was sent flying back toward Kentucky, 
in a most disastrous defeat. He was assailed by 
Indians full of woods-craft knowledge, cunning and 
deceit, all well used to bloody conquests ; and instead 
of winning a glorious victory, as he had anticipated, 
over an insignificant number of disorderly Indians, he 
met with one of the most distressing and humiliating 

25 


26 


BARBARA : 


defeats that marked the whole annals of the entire 
struggle, lasting over a period of nearly twenty years. 
This, too, notwithstanding the 'greater portion of all 
the tribes interested had remained true to the com- 
pacts they had made with the government. It was the 
dissatisfied braves, only, that met and gave him battle; 
only the more ambitious ones of the tribes named in 
the treaties, that objected to their homes and their 
hunting grounds being thus disturbed and invaded by 
the white settlers. 

St. Clair had gone out on his errand of warfare 
with all the brilliant hopes and possibilities of success 
in his favor. He had penetrated deep into the forest, 
some seventy miles from the base of his supplies, and 
was reaching the headwaters of the streams that ran 
toward the north and emptied into Lake Erie, when 
he was met by this band of Indian warriors, under the 
command of such famous chiefs as Little Turtle, of 
the Miamis; Blue Jacket, of the Shawnees; Buck- 
ong-he-loes, of the Delawares, and the notorious white 
man, Simon Gritty. They had gathered about them- 
selves all the discontented warriors of all the tribes 
interested in the grants made, and had determined, if 
possible, to drive back what in their way of thinking 
was an invading army. 

Confident of success, St. Clair started out more 
with the attitude and bearing of a conquering hero 
than a man unused to the subtle warfare of the sav- 
age. His victory was counted before it was won; and 
he took along with his army and baggage train almost 
two hundred women and children, some of them the 
families of officers and soldiers, but in many instances 


BARBARA : 


27 


nothing more than camp followers. What he intended 
doing with them in case of an attack and defeat, 
had apparently never been considered. All this, too, 
in the face of the fact that he had no real or general 
knowledge of Indian warfare, or Indian surprises, and 
he himself in feeble health. The natural conse- 
quences were that his camp was invaded one morning, 
about an hour before daylight, and in spite of the valor 
of the officers, and the courage of the soldiers, before 
he could realize the full extent of his great danger, 
about one-half of his army was either killed, wounded 
or taken prisoners, all within an hour after the fight 
was begun. Finally, seeing that the battle was 
against him at every point; that he was fast being 
surrounded, and that a general massacre would be the 
inevitable result if he continued much longer in^the 
effort to stand his ground, the troops that were left 
were gathered for a determined charge for the rear. 
This of itself proved a success, but it was at a great 
loss. The troops having at last fought their way 
through the Indian lines, at once took up a hasty 
retreat toward Fort Jefferson, near Cincinnati. Artil- 
lery and supplies, the killed, wounded, and prisoners, 
all were left to the inhuman torture of the victorious 
savages! And the scene of slaughter that followed 
was one of the worst that had ever been put on record! 

Drunk with their victory, the Indians indulged in 
all the atrocities known to their brutish natures. 
Some of the wounded that had been left behind to 
meet their fate at the hands of the victors, dragged 
themselves to the trees, and bracing their bodies 
against them fought to the bitter end. All were put 


28 


BARBARA : 


to death, after having suffered every torture that the 
savage mind could invent and inflict. The women 
endured the worst punishment, while children were 
dashed against trees and their brains scattered about 
the ground. Taken as a whole, it was the most sick- 
ening disaster known in all the Indian warfare of that 
time, and took on all the nature of the strifes that had 
been told of as having occurred among themselves in 
their conquests on the “Dark and Bloody Grounds” 
of Kentucky, when savage met savage, in a savage 
warfare of extermination, and died to a man, none 
being left to tell the tale. 

The result of this terrible conflict and of such a 
sickening disaster can be better imagined than 
described. It swept over the country like a whirl- 
wind, causing a cry for revenge to go up that would 
not be stilled. It created a determination for retalia- 
tion in hundreds of hearts that was wrought out in 
single-handed combat for many years to follow. In 
the homes that were made desolate by the loss of a 
father or a brother in that great carnage of blood, 
vows were registered to seek a satisfaction in the 
taking of Indian lives, and for every one scored a 
notch was cut in the gun-stock or on the cabin-door 
casing. And it was told that in some instances, when 
there was no longer room on the gun-stock for more 
notches, they were marked with a file on the gun- 
barrel. Other men, whose wives or little ones had 
been thus wantonly outraged and butchered, took 
solemn oaths before their Creator to devote the balance 
of their lives to the work of vengeance they them- 
selves marked out, and from that on followed the “red- 


BARBARA: 


29 


skin” with a most bitter retaliation, never letting pass 
any opportunity to take a life. 

Besides all this, it gave the Indians everywhere 
confidence in their superiority, and emboldened them 
for further battles with the belief that they would 
eventually succeed in pushing the white man back. 
Thus the peace that had once and for so long prevailed 
in the Sandusky and Maumee valleys was now gone. 
Although the majority of the members of the tribes 
remained true to the government, and in their friend- 
ship to the whites, their moral support and sympathies 
were all with their own people, and after a time the 
most of them were enrolled under the leadership of 
that old warrior, Tecumtha, who for almost twenty 
years kept up an incessant warfare throughout the 
Northwestern Territory, backed and encouraged by 
the French and English governments. 

General Wayne’s campaign, which was inaugurated 
the year following the defeat of St. Clair’s army, 
although not put in complete operation until the 
spring of 1794, proved much more successful. He had 
experience to start with, was a born fighter, then 
known as ‘‘Mad Anthony Wayne,” a title given him 
for his traits of character displayed during the Revo- 
lutionary War. For one thing he was cautious in all 
his proceedings, and while conducting his campaign 
down the Maumee valley his movements were so slow 
and deliberate as to earn for him from the Indians he 
was contending against the sobriquet of the “Black- 
snake.” All along his march down the country from 
near Cincinnati until he had reached the battle ground 
of the “Fallen Timbers” on the Maumee, he had scouts 


30 


BARBARA : 


going up and down the Sandusky valley, which region, 
while yet free from warfare in and around Old Lower 
Sandusky, was filled with roving bands of Indians 
coming and going from the army with Little Turtle, 
and committing all sorts of depredations on the 
defenseless settlers. 

The main body of the Indians managed to lead 
Wayne and his forces down the Maumee and into the 
wilderness of that region, feeling undoubtedly that 
they would have him that much farther away from his 
base of supplies and much more to their own advan- 
tage. They hoped, too, eventually to trap him as they 
had St. Clair, but the farther they led him on the more 
they became convinced that they had a different man 
to deal with. The scouts that he kept out on his right 
and left prevented their getting around him and in his 
rear. He gradually forced them on down the valley, 
hoping each day that he would be able to bring them 
to battle the next. But not until they had reached 
their last vantage ground, where nature and the ele- 
ments had apparently set up an impenetrable barricade 
for them, at the “Fallen Timbers,” did they dare risk 
the gauge of battle with him, and then in opposition 
to the expressed advice of their chieftain. Little 
Turtle. It was there that Wayne administered to 
them a lesson in warfare such as they had never 
before received, and one that they never forgot in all 
the years of their continued struggles. 

This for a time subdued them and quelled their 
spirit for war. But it was apparently only for a 
season, and then Tecumtha, under the influence of his 
allies, the English, took up the struggle in another 


BARBARA : 


31 


portion of the northwest and continued on for years. 
Warring through the campaigns in Illinois, Indiana 
and Michigan; on up to the conflicts of i8ii, 1812 and 
1813. Keeping up the strife until he scarcely had a 
brave left to engage in his battles against the whites, 
save as they were furnished him by his British emis- 
saries from Canada. Fighting always a losing fight; 
yet, in his stubbornness and with the encouragement 
given him, struggling on. Not only warring in open 
conflict, but laying waste the homes of the settlers, 
scalping, massacring as he went. Trying to stand 
before a superior force and race of people, and taking 
the very worst course to accomplish his ends. Right 
in his own mind, but misguided by the intrigues of 
the British-Canadians, who yet clung to the hope that 
the union of states might be destroyed, and that a part 
or all the great territory would yet be saved to the 
English crown. But for this interference — and the 
inflaming of the Indians’ minds, arousing in their 
hearts a jealous hatred for the pale-face settlers — 
peace would have been maintained throughout all the 
region that was so ruthlessly swept by the besom of 
war, and the many lives that were offered up as sacri- 
fices would have been saved. Many a home that was 
destroyed by the torch of the red man, and its inmates 
massacred in cold blood, would have been left to peace- 
ful lives and happy families. 

These conflicts in the Wabash and Maumee valleys 
had been thus carried on for years between the Amer- 
ican armies and the restless Indians without having in 
any way particularly disturbed the peace of the 
Indians and what of settlers there might have been in 


32 


BARBARA: 


the Sandusky valley at the lower rapids. These 
French trappers lived here in peace. Whatever of 
white settlements had been made were farther up the 
valley, and while roving bands of Indians were com- 
mitting all sorts of depredations on them— destroying 
their homes, stealing their stock, and in some instances 
massacring the inmates of the home after having put 
them to the most excruciating torture. In spite of all 
this, while these same roving bands were wandering 
about this region as well as elsewhere, these French 
people would come in and settle, follow their labors of 
trapping and fishing, and were seldom if ever inter- 
fered with. They had lived at this point many years, 
long before the white settlers thought of coming, 
and they stayed on through all the struggles. Occa- 
sionally one of them would attempt to wrong his 
savage neighbors, and then of course his life was the 
forfeit, but this was rare. It would be hard to say if 
these first French settlers were full bloods or not. 
More likely they were mostly a combination of both 
French and Indian. And it is probable, too, that they 
may have been a part of what tradition told of— white 
men who had come from some unknown source and 
married Indian women, and who in most instances 
had taken up tribal relations with the Indians. For 
it was related in Indian lore long years before that as 
early as 1718, when the tribes from the Detroit and 
Lake Huron countries were in the custom of taking 
their course up through the Sandusky valley on their 
way into Kentucky, then the “Dark and Bloody 
Grounds” of the contending forces, they found many 
“pale-faces” among the tribes along the Sandusky. 


BARBARA : 


33 


They were to be found, they said, mostly among the 
Wyandottes, the Senecas and the Delawares, all then 
dwelling along the banks of that stream. Where they 
had originally come from was not known, but it was 
the belief that at some time they had been taken pris- 
oners in the far south among the Spanish-French set- 
tlers, and having grown up in their captivity so far 
removed from their homes, they had married with the 
Indians and for many years produced a race of “dusky 
maidens” that were fair :;o look upon and for whom 
there was much contention among the braves of the 
various tribes up and down the valley. And fre- 
quently the warriors from far distant camps made long 
and tedious journeys to capture them in love and bear 
them off in triumph to their wigwams. If these at 
the lower rapids were of this class then some of them 
had degenerated most wonderfully, for in some in- 
stances they were more slovenly in their modes of 
living than the Indians themselves. 

There were, however, numerous exceptions to this 
rule. For there were some among them, traders and 
trappers, who were men or rare intellect and of deter- 
mined wills; men who, while they regarded and 
respected the rights of the Indians, demanded and 
received the same considerations in return ; were in 
some instances really feared, and in others held in 
great esteem by their Indian neighbors. Sometimes 
they were men whom it was a wonder to see in such 
a region, wasting (apparently) the best years of their 
lives far removed from civilization. 

No doubt this peaceful condition was very much 
owing to the influence of the neutral nations whose 

3 


34 


BARBARA : 


homes were here on the east and west banks of the 
river, as they had always endeavored to maintain a 
peaceful attitude in all affairs, greeting all with peace 
and good-will. The couriers, scouts and roving bands 
of Indians that visited the valley while the struggles 
were going on in the other regions of the northwest 
were never interfered with by these local tribes, nor 
were they in any way disturbed. The two nations 
thus located always lived in peace, the one with the 
other. Originally of the Wyandottes, they had located 
here long years before, just when none could say, but 
at least even before the European and Indian wars. 
And then, when the Greenville treaty was made by 
General Wayne, they were granted large reservations 
along -the high banks of the river, and had continued 
to abide in their old homes through all the troubles 
among the other tribes. At one time their villages 
had been walled about, evidences of which remained 
for many years after they had left for the regions 
farther west. The two villages were governed sepa- 
rately, each one having a great chief of its own. The 
braves from the one village sought their squaw wives 
from the tribes of the other. But beyond this friend- 
liness they kept their own counsels. Then, after 
having lived thus in peace for many years, at last some 
misunderstanding arose between them, and those on 
the east banks drove their weaker neighbors from their 
reservation on The west banks, and just before the 
declaration of war between the United States and 
England in 1812, the one nation dispersed itself 
among the various tribes of the northwest, many of 
them engaging in the struggle that soon followed. 


BARBARA ; 


35 


Thus, after having abided together in peace for years, 
hunting, fishing, trapping, gathering their crops of 
fruits, rice and berries, almost as one people, all their 
friendly relations were destroyed, and a longing for 
revenge grew up between them that was never forgot- 
ten, but was worked out in silent warfare, one against 
the other. In spite of this the tribes on the east banks, 
under the chief Black Wolf, continued their friendly 
relations with the settlers in the valley. 

Some time after the date when Washington made 
his visit to the valley, in 1745, and established the 
location for a fort on the west banks of the river, and 
after the Moravians (a religious sect) had been driven 
from the place by the Indians through some misunder- 
standing, about the year 1780, a Catholic mission had 
been established, and was at the time in chaj?ge of a 
most worthy priest, named Father Jacquese. The mis- 
sion house occupied a position on the hill on the west 
banks, at a point near what in after years was known 
as the Pease farm and homestead. Just near it also 
stood the rude hut occupied by the priest. North of 
these and on the brow of the hill, where it could have 
a perfect view and command of the river below, as it 
made several graceful curves from north to west and 
then to the north again, and then swept on toward 
Lake Erie for almost a mile in sight, stood the old, 
dilapidated remains of a stockade fort and the log 
building occupied as a trader’s store. The mission 
house was but a log structure, and all that marked it 
from the rest about it was the wooden cross that had 
been nailed to the peak of the roof on its east end. 

The mission house, the trading post and whatever 


S- 


THE OLD STOCKADE. 


i 

• * 



* V 



1 








✓ 





r 






BARBARA ; 


37 


of log homes that existed, were all on the west banks 
of the river, while all the homes of the trappers were 
located along the banks of the two creeks mentioned. 
The home of Beaumont, the man in charge of the 
trading post, was south of the mission house, and near 
the banks of the creek then fed by the Glenn spring. 
How long he had lived here in the valley no one 
knew, unless the Indians who had been here for more 
than a quarter of a century should tell. The four or 
five homes near his, with two or three on the banks of 
the creek north of the fort site, made up the sum total 
of the white settlers at this time, and numbered alto- 
gether not to exceed twenty or thirty white (French) 
people. But of all these buildings, the mission house 
included, no trace was to be found later than the year 
1845. At that time the location of some of them could 
be marked by the close observer. Their last molder- 
ing remains have long since disappeared, and that as 
effectually as if they had never been. Like those 
that had been here before them, they too have gone 
with nothing to mark their existence. 

The main trail from east to west crossed the river 
here at the lower rapids, while the one running north 
and south passed along the west banks of the river and 
ran from the lower bay far up into the homes of the 
Senecas, Crawfords and other Indians of the south. 
Along these two trails all the tribes of Indians round 
about pursued their ways at the various seasons of the 
year, hunting, fishing and gathering their annual crops 
of rice. 

The tribes of Indians of the neutral nations that 
continued to reside on the east banks under the care 


38 


BARBARA : 


of the great chief, Black Wolf, each had a chief of 
its own. And among them was one young warrior 
called Lone Arrow, son of the great chief, a most 
ambitious, restless brave, full of daring and a perfect 
Indian athlete. He had been named thus by his people 
because of his disposition to continually wander off on 
long hunting and fishing expeditions by himself and 
on frequent excursions out among the other Indians 
of the valley. Whether these visits to the other tribes 
were made in search of a squaw wife or not was never 
known, although his young braves often accused him 
of it. At all events, he never brought one back with 
him. Possibly he was too particular in his choice for 
an Indian and could not find one that came up to his 
peculiar ideas of what was wanted. The result was 
that his frequent travels and excursions terminated in 
making him the best informed of all his people, and 
so thoroughly familiar with all the region round about, 
that he was able to penetrate the forest in any direc- 
tion and reach any particular point or tribe anywhere 
in all the whole northwest. 

Lone Arrow was yet quite a young brave when 
General Wayne and his army made their way down 
through the Maumee country in the summer of 1794. 
But he was ambitious for the excitement of warfare, 
and when the troops had reached a point far up the 
country from the Sandusky valley and his home, he 
one day took his departure, only saying to his people 
that he was going to join the army. There was little or 
nothing to restrain him in his purpose, and fitting 
himself for the journey, he set out for the headwaters 
of the Sandusky. Up near Fort Recovery, where St. 


BARBARA ; 


39 


Clair had met with such an inglorious defeat, he met 
Wayne’s army on its way toward the Maumee, and at 
once offered his services as an Indian scout. In that 
capacity he did service until after the battle of the 
Fallen Timbers, when an incident transpired that sent 
him home in a terribly dilapidated condition. 

It was at that battle that Lone Arrow was taken 
prisoner by the Indians, after 
he had succeeded in releasing 
a Kentucky Captain named 
Beveridge, who had been 
wounded and captured during 
the engagement. The scout 
had witnessed the incident, and 
as he had formed an attach- 
ment for the man, and from 
the love of excitement that 
continually burned within him, 
he determined to undertake his 
release. He was fully aware of 
the dangers attending such an 
effort, but was in no way 
daunted in the desire for the 
accomplishment of his purpose. 
Availing himself of the tog- 
gery of one of the dead war- 
riors of the Little Turtle tribes, 
he entered their camps after nightfall, and watch- 
ing for the opportunity, released the prisoner. He 
had succeeded in conducting the Captain safely 
out of the camp of the Indians, and they were 
well on their way to Wayne’s lines, when the prisoner 



LONE ARROW. 


40 


BARBARA : 


was missed, and a dozen or so of the braves started in 
pursuit of them. 

To save the Captain, who on account of his wound 
could travel but slowly, Lone Arrow lingered behind, 
bidding his companion to fa.ee with all possible speed. 
The Captain managed to escape and reached the army 
in safety. For a time the scout succeeded in baffling 
his pursuers and leading them away from following 
the Captain, but finally he was captured and taken 
back to their camp. 

Once there they proceeded to punish him for his 
work. He was set upon and beaten in a most fearful 
manner ; was made to run the gauntlet and tortured in 
various ways. Finally, tiring of their labors in their 
work of punishment, all of which he endured with that 
stoicism so natural to the Indian, they bound him and 
awaited another opportunity to put him to still greater 
torture. But they, Indians as they were, had a most 
cunning one to deal with ; one as scheming and design- 
ing as themselves. They had pounded him up pretty 
badly, and they possibly had little or no thought that 
he was in any condition to escape them. So, binding 
him as they thought securely, they awaited another 
day to make a finish of him. But he gave them the 
slip. 

During the night a light rain came on; the bands 
that held him became wet and slippery, and by much 
tugging and continual pulling, he caused them to 
stretch instead of shrinking, and finally released his 
hands. Then cautiously he worked the fastenings 
about his limbs and body loose. Instead of then 
quietly making his escape as a white man would have 


BARBARA: 


41 


done, he lingered to work out a little revenge of his 
own. Securing the knife of a sleeping warrior, he 
started in to pay them for the torture they had inflicted 
on him, and in the midst of his bloody work the camp 
was aroused, and he was compelled to take to flight. 
He made his way toward the Maumee river; reaching 
its banks he plunged in and swam to the opposite 
shore, with a dozen or more in pursuit of him. Once 
over he was not long in striking familiar ground, and 
finding the main trail, started toward the Sandusky 
valley. Along before daylight he managed to throw 
his pursuers off his tracks by taking to the woods and 
following along the course of a small stream — wading 
in the water to cover his footsteps. 

After dragging his weary body through the wilder- 
ness all that day and night, he was found the next 
morning in an almost dying condition near the mission 
house on the high banks of the Sandusky river. With 
the assistance of one of the trappers the worthy priest 
had him carried to the home of the Beaumonts on 
Glenn creek. There he remained for some days, being 
doctored back to life by them and the priest. 

It was here at this home that a little child came to 
the notice of Lone Arrow, and toward which he 
formed a great attachment. He called her “Little 
White Flame,” gave her a number of Indian trinkets, 
and when he recovered said to the people that he 
would try and repay their kindness in taking care of 
her safety as she grew up to womanhood. 

This last expedition satisfied the young brave for a 
time at least, and when he was again able to join his 
own people, he promised to try and content himself 


42 


BARBARA : 


with remaining at home in the valley. For a year or 
so he confined himself to hunting and fishing, but his 
was a nature not likely to remain in so passive a con- 
dition, and, whenever opportunities offered where 
there was excitement, he took advantage of them in 
order to work out his impulsive disposition. The 
results were there were very few moons passed over 
his head that he was not in some sort of business that 
brought him excitement and trouble. Apparently he 
would go a long distance out of his natural way to 
interfere in some affair of the other Indians, simply to 
enjoy the risks it brought to him. Taken altogether, 
he was a most peculiar red man, in many instances 
with more of the instincts of the white man than of 
his own dusky brethren. Had he ever taken the field 
as a warrior he would no doubt have been a great 
fighter. 


CHAPTER THREE. 


‘Maiden with the meek brown eyes, 

In whose orbs a shadow lies: 

Like the dusk in evening skies — 

Thou, whose locks outshine the sun 
Golden tresses wreathed in one, 

As the braided streamlets run.” 

— Longfellow, 


It is within the home of the Beaumonts that this 
story has in particular to deal; hence a close descrip- 
tion of it and its occupants — its people — seems quite 
necessary. Among all the few homes thereabout, 
along the course of Glenn creek, it was the largest; 
yet it was only a long and fairly high one-story struc- 
ture with a somewhat high gabled roof. The whole 
was composed of unhewn logs with broad oak clap- 
boards for the roof, and they held down with binding 
poles. Along its east front, facing the river, ran a 
rude, wide porch, made solely with an eye to comfort 
and with no thought of architectural beauty, and 
which bespoke enjoyment and pleasure of a warm 
afternoon. In the east center of the building was a 
door leading into a hall that passed through from 

43 


44 


BARBARA: 


front to rear, and into a lean-to kitchen and dining- 
room on the west side. On the south side of the hall 
was the living room, looking out to the east and south, 
and toward the river, not far away. Back of this living 
room was the family bedroom with closets and other 
compartments. On the north of the hall were two 
other bedrooms with closets and store rooms. All of 
them were what might be termed fairly well furnished 
for the time and location, but mostly with articles of 
a somewhat unique and rough nature. The inside 
facings of the logs had been hewn smooth, the cracks 
were “chinked” with a sort of mortar, and with the 
hangings of numerous French pictures, curios and 
mementos, their rough appearance was well covered. 
As a whole, the home throughout was neat, clean 
and pleasant. 

About the front of the house was a yard enclosed 
with an old-fashioned split picket fence. Another 
fence of a more rude character surrounded an acre or 
two of land in the rear. That in the front of the house 
was well filled with a profusion of hollyhocks, tulips 
and poppies, all bespeaking at a glance the care and 
keeping of the graceful hand of woman. The ground 
back and beyond the house was devoted to growing 
vegetables and a small orchard well filled with plum, 
cherry and apple trees. 

The general appearance of the exterior of the 
house, stained and weather-beaten ; the peculiarly con- 
structed stick chimneys on the north and south ends of 
the building; the pickets of the fence along the imme- 
diate front, worn and broken ; the aged look of the 
fence about the rear of the house and garden; the 


BARBARA: 


45 


growth of the Jrees and the different shrubs; and even 
the old swing-pole to the well, from which was drawn 
the coolest of water in an old-fashioned “iron-bound 
bucket;’’ all, everything about the whole place, bespoke 
age. It was not a new home. 

Whether it had been built by its present owner, 
Isadore Beaumont, was not known, for if every man 
in the little hamlet had been questioned, none could 
have told when or by whom it had been constructed, 
nor when its present owner had first made it his home. 
They all knew it was called “The Beaumont Home,” 
that its present occupants were full of hospitality and 
generous to a great degree ; but none could say when 
they first came to the place and made it their home. 
To pass that way, along what was called the great trail, 
was to create the impression that it was a comfortable 
place to stop and abide for a time, for in its day it 
came nearer having the appearance of a public stop- 
ping-place than any other house anywhere in sight. 
And few there were, Indians or white men, that went 
that way, but lingered for a rest or for a drink of the 
cool, clear water that came up from the depths of the 
well at the end of the long pole on which hung the old 
moss-covered bucket. Large and airy^s the home 
was, as it nestled down among the great and small 
trees, with its big vine-covered porch, its occupants 
were few — but three in number — father, mother and 
daughter. 

And although long years have passed since the 
last vestige of that home disappeared, neglect and 
decay doing their work well but slowly, yet as late as 
1845 the moldering ruins of the house and evidences 


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46 




V. 



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THE BEAUMONT HOME 











BARBARA: 


47 


of the fruit trees and shrubs could be found by any 
one who passed by, or along the north banks of Glenn 
creek, if he had taken the trouble to look for them not 
far below the hill, just southeast of the old Pease 
homestead. 

Beaumont himself was a man who would attract 
attention among men anywhere. Of a well propor- 
tioned build, and with a most perfectly constructed 
form, there was a certain something about him that 
impressed those he met at first glance. With these 
and other peculiarities — characteristics all his own — he 
made you feel at once that in some way he was more 
than he assumed. Somehow there was a something 
that was continually cropping out from beneath what 
he endeavored to make appear as a rough exterior — a 
sort of refinement he could not altogther hide — 
a softness of nature he was continually endeavoring 
to smother and keep out of sight. A man whose 
sinewy muscles would command respect if nothing 
else, yet of that genial character that made friends 
instead of foes. Among the Indians with whom he 
had much dealings there were none his enemies. 
They all regarded him as their friend. He appeared 
to understand them, and they him, thoroughly. He 
spoke their language fluently, was never false to a 
promise he made them, and always insisted they should 
deal the same with him. When he first came to the 
valley, or from where, no one but himself knew, and 
on that subject he never talked. In fact, it was one of 
his peculiar traits never to speak of himself or his 
business with any one. That he was intelligent was 
apparent from every word he spoke. And there were 


48 


BARBARA : 


occasions when, becoming thoroughly interested in 
some subject under discussion, he would drop some 
remark or insinuation that would lead the hearer to 
believe he knew more about France and its history 
than he cared to admit — that he might have had to do 
with it and its people more than he now wanted the 
people about him to know. No one ever presumed to 
question him regarding himself, and the result was 
that none of his neighbors knew more about him than 
they saw in his every-day life. Yet with all this, with 
all his bland and genial nature, there slumbered within 
him a whirlwind of passion, fearful when aroused, and 
that would sweep everything before it. Still, in spite 
of this, in spite of his reticent disposition, he was an 
agreeable man to deal with, a social companion, while 
his home life was full of domestic happiness, for his 
loves were as strong as his powers and peculiarities 
were great and remarkable. 

His wife was the opposite of him in almost every 
particular; in her stature and in all her natural char- 
acteristics. She had much of womanly refinements, 
and they appeared strange in her with her surround- 
ings. Of a most lovable yet nervous temperament, 
she abided with her husband in perfect peace. If 
anything, she was the stronger character of the two in 
the home. For years she had been his sole compan- 
ion here in the valley. She was probably, like her 
husband, French by birth, but much more of the 
Creole type. She spoke the language well, but not 
with that same intellect as Beaumont. Was quite a 
dark brunette, with straight, black hair so peculiarly 
of the Indian order as to make one think she might 


BARBARA : 


49 


be of that race, especially when she was speaking their 
tongue. She was very homelike in her nature and a 
perfect adept at the needle. As a consequence, her 
attire and all her home surroundings were perfection, 
in that as well as in other respects. With what she 
had at hand to adorn her home she made much. The 
furs of wild animals, trophies of the chase, and many 
other trifles picked up on the outskirts of civilization, 
helped and added to adornments here and there about 
the walls, and did much toward covering up an other- 
wise rough appearance and gave the whole a general 
cheerfulness. In a much higher scale of social life 
she would have been the perfect housekeeper and the 
model wife and mother. 

With this strange couple, when first we find them, 
was a young and beautiful child, a maiden — the coun- 
terpart of neither — a fair and winsome little creature. 
Of a most exquisite mould, with a pretty, girlish face, 
fair of skin, crowned with a head of rounded form and 
a growth of most luxuriant auburn hair of that peculiar 
color as to make it the cherished adornment of the 
most perfect face and form. The contour of her 
limbs, arms and neck bespoke plainly the purity of 
the blood coursing through her veins, but not more 
plainly than did her disposition, which was as happy 
and free as the birds and air about her, and which she 
so much enjoyed. When first we meet her she is at 
that point in her life when the parents but too plainly 
see the much enjoyed child-nature giving way to the 
young girl-woman, and when the graceful outlines of 
the more beautiful child have begun to show them- 
selves. Her native freedom and her graceful, per- 
4 


50 


BARBARA ; 


fectly rounded mould, all gave token of the rapidly 
developing womanhood. Had she been born and 
reared in the most fashionable salon, save for her 
natural and unrestrained freedom, she could not have 
been more perfectly the graceful creature one so 
seldom meets and so much admires. Fond of dress, 
she was always attired in colors most becoming, her 
gowns fitting with a precision, yet with that somehow 
careless grace that added still more to her perfect 
poise and gave a greater beauty to her faultless out- 
lines. 

Years before our story opens a band of the Seneca 
Indians had come to the Beaumont home in the low 
dusk of a summer evening while on their way north, 
possibly to the rice fields of the Sandusky bay. They 
were a people who had known Beaumont for many 
years, and admired him for his generous hospitality, 
his fairness in his dealings with them, and for his 
lion-like strength and courage, all of which they had 
tested and had seen displayed on numerous occasions. 
They had camped for the night, as they had done 
many times before, close by on the banks of the San- 
dusky river, near the great trail running north and 
south — the one leading from the lower bay toward the 
upper Sandusky. And when they went away on their 
journey the next morning they had been compelled to 
leave behind them a sick squaw and a small child. 

They left them in a tepee in front of the Beaumont 
home, after both Beaumont and his wife had given 
their consent and had promised to care for them and 
their wants until the tribe should return, when, the 
Indians said, they would be taken back to their home 


BARBARA : 


61 


among the Senecas. As soon as the tribe was out of 
sight, Mrs. Beaumont had the squaw and child 
removed to the house, and there they were properly 
cared for. Everything possible that they and Father 
Jacquese, the priest and physician, could do was done 
for the woman, but before her people returned she 
grew worse and died, and on the day of their coming 
back she was buried on the high point of ground that 
jutted out into the valley, but a short way south of the 
mission house. 

When they did come back, and when they were 
ready to go on their homeward journey, at the urgent 
solicitation of the priest, Beaumont and his wife, after 
numerous presents had been made to them, and after 
the priest had pleaded with them long and earnestly, 
the Indians decided to leave the child to their care and 
keeping. They knew nothing of its origin and could 
only say : 

“She good papoose. She come from way off. She 
white papoose, too. No, we don’t know where she 
come from. We get her from other Indians. We no 
take her. You keep her, good? Yes? Then you may 
have her all to yourself. We not come back for her.” 

“All right,” said Beaumont, but it had been after 
hours of pleadings that they gave this consent. “Then 
she is ours, and you must never come back and ask for 
her, will you? Because if you do, you will make 
trouble. If you give her to us now, you can never get 
her back again. Do you understand?” 

“Yes, we understand good. You keep her always. 
We make good bargain at that,” was the chief’s 
reply. 


52 


BARBARA : 


And so she was left with them, and grew up from 
her young childhood in their valley home. On her 
death bed the squaw who had brought her there asked 
that Father Jacquese of the mission house be called in. 
To him she talked a long time and confided to him 
as much of the child’s history as she knew. And it 
was to the effect that she had come to her from a squaw 
of a tribe of the Choctaws, whose home was some- 
where in Kentucky. Where they had found her, the 
Seneca squaw had never known; indeed, had not 
inquired. But she said she was confident they had 
stolen her from some of the white settlers somewhere 
beyond the Ohio river. This brief history proved of 
little avail to them. Such incidents were of frequent 
occurrence, and, as they had no way of sending word 
broadcast throughout the country, they kept their own 
counsel. The Reverend Father, however, while saying 
nothing to any of the settlers concerning the affair, 
never let slip an opportunity to secure information 
which he hoped might ultimately restore the little one 
to its natural parents. But it was all in vain. News 
from the outside world was slow in drifting down into 
that section of the valley, and he at last said to the 
Beaumonts: 

“You take her, and keep and love her, as I know 
you would one of your own. Make her your daughter 
in every sense of the word, and she will grow up and 
bless you and make yours and her home a happy one. 
She will prove worthy of all you may do for her. 
And if she lives to grow to womanhood, you will both 
bless the day and the circumstances that brought her 
to you and your home. ’ ’ 


BARBARA : 


53 


At last after a few months it was arranged 
between the Beaumonts and Father Jacquese that she 
was to be their daughter, that her name should be 
Barbara Beaumont, and their home should be her 
home, forever. “Barbara” because of the pleadings 
and the arguments they used with the Indians in order 
to induce them to do a virtuous, laudable and kindly 
act. And as she grew to young childhood, then to 
girlhood, and finally into beautiful womanhood, she 
not only proved herself the synonym of her noble 
name, but the solace and joy of their household. And 
there was nothing the Beaumonts could procure for 
her that was good enough in their estimation, and 
whenever Beaumont made his semi-annual trips down 
toward the Detroit country, her wants were the first 
ones considered and supplied. 

To the mother she proved a great comfort, as well 
as a companion ; for she filled the home, first with 
her childish noises and afterward with her young girl- 
hood fancies, all of them strange and most interesting 
to the foster parents. She did at times try the 
mother’s patience with her rambling disposition, which 
developed as she grew older, and with her fondness for 
roaming up and down the river. These trips of hers, 
made on the river, appeared to have taken possession 
of her entire nature, and especially after she was 
made the owner of a birch-bark canoe, given to her by 
Lone Arrow when she was about ten years old. The 
Indian, who was a great frequenter about the home, 
was himself almost as much attached to the child as 
were the parents, and after he had made the canoe 
and given it to her, he spent the most of one season 


54 


BARBARA : 


in teaching her to handle it, first in floating down the 
creek when its banks were filled with water, and after- 
ward on the river. 

To all the Indians round about them Barbara was 
known as “The White Flame of the Sandusky Valley. ’’ 
Indeed, the tribes felt a great admiration for her for 
the kindnesses her people had shown Lone Arrow 
when he was so seriously injured, and for the many 
little favors she herself had displayed toward them at 
different times in her life. To them all in her child- 
hood she was as familiar as their own papooses, and 
when they were about the Beaumont home, which was 
quite frequent, they called her their white papoose. 
She would in those days watch for their comings and 
goings with childish delight, and displayed a feeling 
of loneliness when some of them were not about. As 
she grew older this in a great measure wore away, but 
the Indians continued their friendship, if anything 
growing more fond of the maiden as the years passed. 
While Barbara always regarded them with feelings 
of warm friendship, she came to realize in some way 
that she was different from them — was not of them, 
nor of all those about her. 

While she did all that was possible to make the 
lives of her foster parents peaceful and happy, she 
continually longed to be by herself, and was never so 
satisfied, so really contented, as when she was alone 
and engaged with her own thoughts and imagin- 
ings. 

Of all the neighbors — and they were very few 
indeed — her most constant companion was Jannice 
Deausant, whose parents’ greatest boast was that they 


BARBARA : 


65 


were descendants of the Louisiana strain of French- 
Spanish Creoles, and not of the Canadian type. Be- 
tween these two girls there was an instinctive bond of 
friendship, an affiliation, that made them almost con- 
stant companions and the most faithful of friends. 
Barbara loved her foster parents most dearly; she was 
much attached to Father Jacquese, and always and at 
all times enjoyed the association of Jannice; yet, to 
tell the truth, was endowed with a nature that made 
her as lonely as if they did not exist, and sought soli- 
tude as a pleasure. 

She entered eagerly into the instructions given 
her by. the Reverend Father, for the general knowl- 
edge of life it gave her and for the information 
it furnished beyond the scope of her vision in the 
valley. Her kindness for the Indians came most 
natural, as it supplied her with something out of the 
ordinary, every-day routine of her life, and so broke up 
the ceaseless monotony of an ever recurring sameness, 
day after day. With the Indians, however, it produced 
a deeper consideration, a feeling that she was in some 
way just a little better than all the others about her, 
and created in their minds a desire to be ever watch- 
ful for her welfare and to see that no accidents nor 
harm came to her in her wanderings up and down the 
banks of the river. 

And so it was, that with her peculiar disposition, 
during all the years of her young life, either with or 
without Jannice, much of her time was spent roaming 
about in the near-by woods, along the stream, or in 
rowing up and down between the banks of the beauti- 
ful Sandusky river. Her favorite resort in the heat of 


56 


BARBARA : 


the summer days and in the cool of the afternoons had 
always been in the vicinity of what was then called by 
the Indians, and has ever since been known as, the 
Blue Banks. These were high cliffs of a bluish clay, 
through which the waters at some period of the 
world’s existence had cut their way as they sought 
an outlet toward Lake Erie. 

There, on the high hills, she spent many, many 
hours in deep reveries over something she could never 
thoroughly satisfy herself about. Often she would sit 
in her canoe at the foot of the cliffs close up in the 
shadows of the chapparal of bushes, adorning her 
moccasins with the many tri-colored beads Beaumont 
had furnished her, or in the manufacture of some 
dainty article of her wearing apparel. She had no 
disposition for idleness, but wanted always to be busy 
with something. She frequently said it was easier to 
think when her hands were thus engaged. 

Sometimes, in the afternoons, she would climb the 
steep hills, and there in the decline of the day sit at 
the foot of some great birch or monster oak tree, look- 
ing off toward the setting sun, completely lost in day- 
dreams of a picture she could but dimly recall — of a 
home she could not tell where — surrounded on all 
sides by water, and bathed in the brightest and purest 
of sunshine ; of a home filled with music, mirth and 
gladness, the whole year through. These memories, 
these reveries, often brought silent but not altogether 
gloomy tears, and filled her heart full with a longing 
love that she could only lavish on the Beaumonts, or 
Jannice. So on her return to the home she was flow- 
ing over with loving affections, and this caused her 


BARBARA : 


57 


foster parents to cherish her the more, and forgive her 
roving disposition. 

She was fast growing into a most lovely woman- 
hood. In all the years of her life she had never yet 
been outside the range of their humble home. Her 
entire knowledge of mankind was what she had seen 
tSere in the valley. The foster parents, Father 
Jacquese, the Deausants and their only daughter Jan- 
nice and son Bernard, the other trappers about them, 
the Indians, and the very rare strangers who passed 
along the trail — trappers and half-breeds— penetrating 
still farther into what to her was the unknown wilder- 
ness, were to her all there was of the world, or that 
she positively knew anything about. 

The Reverend Father, who had early taken charge 
of her education, was pleased to note the rapid 
improvements that were being made in her mind, and 
the general knowledge of affairs she was becoming 
possessed of. In later years he had in a very cautious 
way talked with her of her infancy, of the old squaw 
mother who had brought her to the Beaumont home, 
in order to ascertain if possibly there lingered in her 
memory any thoughts of her birth or of^ her own 
people. These talks were at first quite vague and 
couched in terms not intended to arouse in her mind 
any uncertain fancies. From the start he could plainly 
see that while there was nothing tangible or certain, 
yet there was a something apparently unreal or so 
dim in her mind that it could not be put into words 
or expressed; nothing, only a far-away thought of 
a place out in the water, or where water was every- 
where. From the first she showed it was a subject 


58 


BARBARA : 


she took great delight in, and was so full of inquisi- 
tiveness that the priest for a time regretted having 
ever broached the affair. But as the years rolled by 
he slowly endeavored to unravel the mystery, never 
at any time revealing the whole strange incident to 
her. But she for herself did much of it, in her quiet 
reveries, putting this, that and the whole together, and 
then wondering what it all must in some way mean to 
her. 

About her neck had been placed by the squaw 
mother a string of beautiful pearl beads, in the center 
of which hung a bronze medallion. On the one side 
of the medal in bas-relief was a castle with three 
imposing towers, and about what seemed embattle- 
ments. . On the reverse side were inscribed several 
Celtic characters, with the figures “1623.” While 
examining it one day after the lessons were done, and 
Barbara and the priest were seated on the Beaumont 
porch, she said to him : 

“Father Jacquese, I wish you would tell me what 
this medal means. You look at it, and I study it, but 
it gives me no information, nor do you. The beads 
are fine, and I admire them. But what about the 
medallion? Why is it with the pearls, and why should 
I always wear it?” 

“It is indeed a strange treasure trove. It is one 
that must in some way reveal a history and a story of 
long ago. It was without doubt made to represent 
some purpose, some event, and in my mind must bear 
a legend of a family conquest. Just what, I have not 
been able to find out. You should guard it well — as 
carefully as you will your good name. Let it never 


BARBARA : 


69 


depart from your keeping. It has been blessed 
beyond measure, not by me alone, but by others before 
me, and by those who were once proud to be its pos- 
sessors, long years before you were born. Its possession 
can but bring you good fortune and some day great 
happiness. May eventually give you more joy than I 
can tell.” 

‘'But, Father Jacquese, tell me of its origin, if you 
can. Where did it come from? And what sort of a 
legend can it reveal? How did she come by it who 
placed it on my neck? If good fortune attends it, why 
not tell me now, and how?*’ 

‘ ‘ My dear child, ’ ' the priest replied, ‘ ‘ that is beyond 
my power. To tell how good fortune may come save 
by obeying God’s laws, by trying to be pure and holy, 
is not given to us poor mortals. That its legend is 
one of honor I have no doubt. How or why, must be 
left for time to reveal to you. It must have been 
given to you by those who loved you dearly. It was 
in my presence placed about your neck by her who 
when dying blessed it and you. It was no doubt given 
you by some one as a legacy from an honored family 
— whom, she did not of course know. I was besought 
to teach you its value and bid you wear it always next 
your heart. Whence it came was not revealed to me. 
Only see that you guard its safety well, and ever keep 
it in your possession. I would trust it to no one, save 
those you love, and whom you know love you, and only 
then when necessity compels you to.” 

‘‘It is all so strange to me that I cannot compre- 
hend it. How it can have anything to do with my 
future life and happiness I cannot understand. But I 


60 


BARBARA : 


shall do as you ask, and shall remember your instruc- 
tions, hoping that it may some day reveal to me that 
which I long so much to know.” 

This talk made a deep impression on Barbara’s 
mind, and it was much strengthened by an incident 
that occurred quite accidentally. One day Lone Arrow 
had come to the Beaumont home in a terribly used up 
condition, having fallen in with a band of hostile Indi- 
ans, or had been injured in the chase by some wild 
beast, he would not say which. While Barbara was 
ministering to his wants the fastening to the string 
of beads came loose and it fell by his side on the couch. 
His quick eyes detected it, and picking it up he 
examined it very curiously. In a few seconds, having 
satisfied his curiosity, he handed it to Barbara, saying 
to her: 

‘‘White Flame is good squaw. Heap good to 
Indians. She brave, too. This is heap purty trinket. 
You keep; don’t lose it. ” 

“It is mine. Lone Arrow. Do you know what it 
means?” 

“Ugh! no. Think I saw one like it once — wav 
off.” 

“Oh, do you think you did? Can you tell me 
where? And do you. know who had it? Oh, Lone 
Arrow, can you tell me anything about it?” 

“Don’t know anything about it. Maybe I saw one ; 
maybe not. Can’t say now, it was so long ago.” 

And that was all the information she could get from 
him. Just enough to arouse her curiosity. After that 
she thought it more strangely wonderful than ever 
before and examined it more often. Indeed, she 


BARBARA : 


61 


wasted hours in the endeavor to evolve some meaning 
from it. And all to no purpose whatever. 

It was in one of these moods that we find her one 
day in September, in the year 1812. All through the 
morning, and now away into the afternoon, she had 
lingered about the Blue Banks on the opposite side of 
the river from her home. It was one of those occa- 
sions when she wanted to be by herself. She had 
taken her work with her, and with that and her mus- 
ings had passed the time until now the shadows of the 
lingering day began to make long figures on land and 
water. Alternately she had employed her time with 
work and in studying over that medal. 

She had descended the banks an hour before, and, 
seated in her canoe, had sang over her small store of 
French and Indian refrains, and at last was preparing 
to return to the home. She was just approaching a 
great clump of bushes that lined the water’s edge at 
the foot of the high hills, and there she again hesitated 
in her reveries — holding on by one hand to the bushes. 
Finally, letting go her hold of the willows, she took 
up the paddle and was about to give the canoe a shove 
out into the stream when, up above her, she heard, 
first, one ! two ! ! three shots ! ! ! Then the wild, exul- 
tant yells of Indians! What could it mean? 

The shots might not mean much — but what about 
the yells? Who could they be? Not friendly Indians 
surely? Possibly hostiles? When she first heard the 
shots she took it to be some of Lone Arrow’s people 
after game. But when the shouts immediately fol- 
lowed and rang out clear and shrill on the evening air, 
her heart stood still for the instant. Then, with a 



BARBARA AT THE BLUE BANKS 




62 









BARBARA : 


63 


supreme effort she put the paddle deep into the water, 
and with one push sent the canoe up into the cover of 
the bushes, hiding it and herself completely from 
view — and then waited. 

But she did not have long to wait nor wonder, 
when an incident happened that changed the whole 
tenor of her present and future life. An incident so 
strange and startling as to almost paralyze her with 
its wonderfulness. 


CHAPTER FOUR. 


“I like a poem or a song; — 

And a bit of history can’t be wrong — 
With just a hint of mystery.” 

— Hadley, 


As Governor of the great northwest, General Har- 
rison in i8ii passed through a most serious campaign 
in the valley of the Wabash, the final battle of which 
was fought and won at Tippecanoe. From that con- 
test he obtained much valuable knowledge of Indian 
warfare, so that when he was commissioned a General, 
and was given full command of all the forces to be 
used in all that region of country, including the San- 
dusky and Maumee valleys, with absolute power to act 
as occasion and circumstance might require, it was 
with much tact and considerable knowledge that he 
set about his work in 1812 and 1813 of teaching the 
Indians under Tecumtha and the invading British 
soldiers under General Proctor some lessons in warfare 
that they had not before received. 

The defeat and surrender of Hull, whose actions 
have often been seriously criticised and censured, both 

64 


BAKBAKA : 


65 


by those in authority and as well by others who were 
in a position to make them familiar with all the condi- 
tions and circumstances, had once more created a bold- 
ness on the part of the Indians and their allies, the 
British. Consequently, when Harrison assumed his 
new command and took the field in person, it was with 
a full determination on his part of penetrating- the 
Sandusky and Maumee valleys their entire lengths, 
and driving from them every vestige of the enemy. 
With this object in view, and with the understanding 
that it was no easy task, that he had before him many 
long and weary marches and some severe battles, he 
once more started out to penetrate the wilderness 
toward the north. 

Early in August, 1812, he was at Cincinnati, in com- 
mand of a large force of infantry, artillery and 
mounted men, fully prepared to push his way down 
through the valley countries to the very head of Lake 
Erie, if need be. A large portion of his troops were 
regulars, with Ohio and Kentucky volunteers. Among 
the latter were three companies of mounted troopers 
under the command of Captains Roper, Bacon and 
Clark. With one of the companies was a Lieutenant 
named Beveridge, a fine specimen from the ‘'Blue 
Grass” region, whose home was near Lexington, and 
whose father before him had been a soldier, a commis- 
sioned officer under General Wayne, in the campaign ot 
1794. These mounted troops were nearly all vigorous 
young men, and proved to be of great value in the cam- 
paign that followed. Because of their youth and natural 
endurance, they were able to make long and tedious 
rides over the country, thereby keeping the General 


66 


BARBARA : 


well informed and also preventing the Indians from 
passing around the flanks of the army, thus making it 
possible for Harrison to keep his line of supplies open, 
and his communication to the rear free, both very 
important matters in such an extensive line of opera- 
tions. 

It was not long after the army began its advance 
movement down the country that it became neces- 
sary to keep these mounted men continually on the 
move, especially after the army had reached the head- 
waters of the Miami and had started for the Sandusky 
and Maumee streams. Troublesome Indians began 
appearing in his front, and it was soon realized that 
to keep them away from the rear of their lines they 
must be driven from the flanks and kept in the front. 

It was on one of these reconnoitering expeditions, 
when the right of the army was passing near one of 
the tributaries of the Sandusky river, far up in tt^e 
Wyandotte country, that a detachment of these Ken- 
tucky troopers was sent out under command of Lieu- 
tenant Beveridge, with orders to scout the country 
thoroughly for roving bands of Indians, either in large 
or small numbers, and to ascertain the condition of 
those still remaining in their camps. Harrison knew 
there were many tribes down along the Sandusky. 
He had been informed that the Senecas, the Crawfords, 
the Wyandottes, the Delawares and the Ottawas were 
remaining peacefully in their wigwams, but he was 
not yet certain of it. And as he was anxious to know 
and be sure of it, he had called Lieutenant Beveridge 
to his headquarters and had explained to him just 
< what he desired to know and have him do. He told 


BARBARA : 


67 


him in plain terms that the expedition was one that 
would be full of great dangers, and especially so if 
the tribes whose homes were along that stream were 
on the warpath. If they were not, then with them he 
would be safe. He explained to him also that some- 
where down the valley were the neutral nation tribes, 
and if he should by any sort of chance fall in with them 
or any of the other peaceful Indians anywhere along the 
stream, he was to meet them in all friendliness and 
give them tokens (trinkets) of friendship and peace 
from him, the General. And after having explained it 
all most thoroughly to the Lieutenant, he said to 
him : 

‘•Now, I would like to have you go on this expedi- 
tion. I have confidence in your coolness and courage 
and in your Kentucky blood and breeding, and that 
they will carry you through all right. But I tell you 
frankly of the dangers you will incur in case the 
Indians in that direction are up in arms. If they are, 
you are to return as soon as possible after having 
obtained all the information you can as to their move- 
ments and numbers. If they are peaceful and you 
meet them with presents, you are safe so far as they 
are concerned, and you can proceed on down the 
valley,” 

“General,” replied young Beveridge, “I entered 
the army for this campaign, expecting dangers and 
hardships, and I should prove false to myself if I were 
not now ready and willing to accept them when they 
offer themselves in the line of my duty. You have 
honored me by asking me to undertake the trip, and 
though the dangers might be twofold what you picture 


68 


BARBARA : 


them, still I would willingly undertake the perform- 
ance of the duty, for that I consider it. ” 

“I like your talk, Lieutenant, and shall say this, if 
you succeed or not — and 1 believe you will — your 
willingness to enter into such service will be remem- 
bered. ” 

“Thank you. General,” Beveridge replied. “Let 
me know when I am expected to start, and 1 assure 
you I shall be ready for duty and to carry your orders 
into effect.” 

“Very well. You can select what men you may 
want. Do not make the squad too large so as to excite 
Indian curiosity, or their suspicions. Be ready to 
start in the morning. Follow a course directly down 
the river. Take with you a trusted guide as an inter- 
preter, as well as for other services, but trust more to 
your own discretion and judgment than to his. In 
case of an attack, of which I warn you to be extremely 
careful, and to avoid if possible, do not let the Indians 
induce you to fire first. Let them begin the assault. 
Still, you must be guided in this, as in other matters, 
altogether by circumstances as they may occur at the 
time. If you meet roving bands, try to ascertain if 
they are friendly. Of course, be cautious of surprises, 
both day and night. Above all, avoid being captured. 
Keep out of their hands in some way, if they should 
attack with numbers greater than your own.” 

“Thank you, General, I shall try my best to follow 
out all the instructions given me. If I fail it shall not 
be my fault. I shall try to keep out of their clutches, 
and hope to return with such information as will please 
you.” 


BARBARA : 


69 


“The instructions I have given you are all that are 
necessary. Get all the men who are to accompany 
you in readiness to-day, and be prepared for the start 
early in the morning. Be careful for your safety, and 
success to the expedition.” 

Shaking hands with the General, the Lieutenant 
took his leave and spent the balance of the day in 
preparations and in selecting men whom he knew the 
best, as well as in securing good horses. With light, 
happy hearts eight of them set out in the morning of 
a most beautiful September day^ full of hope and con- 
fidence. 

It was the most glorious season of the year, and 
their ride, as they proceeded along through the 
country, seemed more in the nature of a pleasant 
excursion than one connected with war movements. 
As they passed on down the stream the valle)^ opened 
up at almost every turn with new and unexpected 
scenery. Not only was it picturesque and peaceful, 
but it was gloriously grand. It was a new country, 
full of fascination and surprises. Game and fish were 
found in abundance, so that their wants were more 
than supplied. And all along, the woods, the banks 
and the streams seemed filled with romance and happy 
incidents. 

They found the Crawfords, the Delawares and the 
Wyandottes all in their camps and in peaceful dispo- 
sition. Some of their ambitious braves had deserted 
their tribal relations for the time and were in arms 
with the contending Tecumtha. Through the guide. 
Lieutenant Beveridge expressed to the Indians in 
camp the good wishes and friendly feelings of General 


70 


BARBARA : 


Harrison, and gave them a positive assurance that they 
would not in any way be disturbed. The pipe of 
peace was brought out and smoked, and any quantity 
of presents were distributed among the chiefs, braves 
and squaws. Their peaceful attitude led the Lieuten- 
ant to imagine that his whole trip was to be filled with 
pleasant greetings and his duties to be accomplished 
with ease and comfort. From the tribes they had 
visited much information was obtained, while consid- 
erable knowledge was acquired by their personal 
observations. Beveridge was highly elated with his 
success so far, and but for the desire to meet the 
tribes of the neutral nations, or at least to be certain 
of their attitude, was ready to start on his return trip 
to the army. Especially was this so after he had met 
and talked with the Seneca Indians. But he decided, 
since everything had been so extremely pleasant, to 
push on down the stream toward what he was told was 
the lower rapids of the river, at or near where the neu- 
tral nations lived. He felt from what the General had 
said to him about these people that their attitude was 
of considerable importance, and since he was now 
so far on his way toward their homes, and as nothing 
had been met with that in any way interfered with 
their proceeding, it appeared only as a matter of a 
few more miles of ride to go on and thus cover the 
whole territory laid out in the General’s conversation 
and instructions. 

So, after having concluded their visit with the Sen- 
ecas, they turned their faces again toward the north, 
and proceeded on down the banks of the river, full of 
hope and buoyed up with the thoughts that soon their 


BARBARA: 


71 


journey would be at an end, and they could return to 
camp full of information, and the further statement 
that there were no hostile Indians in the Sandusky 
valley anywhere. 

Some ten or twelve miles up the river from Old 
Lower Sandusky the troopers sighted a band of 
Indians who were evidently at the time going north, 
the same as themselves. When first discovered they 
were still a mile or two farther down the stream than 
the soldiers. The scout had thought he had seen a 
smoke curling up from one of the high banks early in 
the morning, and since then the troopers had been 
proceeding with great precaution, with a view if pos- 
sible of ascertaining who they were and what their 
mission. Having thus far met only friendly Indians 
they inferred these might be the same. On closer 
inspection they saw the Indians were on horses, that 
there were some twenty of them, and no doubt a 
marauding party, more than likely from the Tecum- 
tha forces. The troopers up to this time were of the 
opinion they had not been seen by the Indians, and 
the Lieutenant had about made up his mind to cross 
the stream and from the other side try to watch their 
movements. However, they were soon made aware of 
the fact that the Indians were deceiving them, for at 
the first opportunity the savages cut into their rear 
and began following them on down the river. 

Lieutenant Beveridge was sure then that they 
meant mischief, and when they later attempted to cut 
them off from the river, at the suggestion of the guide 
he ordered a dash made for the banks with the inten- 
tion of making a crossing at all hazards. He remem- 


72 


BARBARA : 


bered his instructions to avoid firing on Indians as long 
as it was possible to prevent doing so, and as the party 
greatly outnumbered his own, he considered discretion 
the better part of valor, for a time at least. When 
the troopers started for the river banks the Indians 
made a rush for them and fired several shots. Then 
the Lieutenant ordered his men to fire, and a general 
skirmish ensued. The troops slowly retreated on down 
the stream, watching for a favorable chance to make 
a ford, the Indians following and doing all they could 
to prevent their making the crossing. 

Beveridge now realized that all that could be done 
was to either continue retreating on down the river, or 
make a bold dash and try to cut their way through 
the lines, and the latter he decided to try. At the 
moment he gave the order for a charge, the Indians, 
seeming to divine the movement, made a dash for the 
soldiers. The result was that before Beveridge was 
aware of it, he and one of his men were cut off from 
the balance of his command. They were slowly 
forced farther and farther away, while the remainder 
of the troopers were held at bay by the main body of 
the savages. All he could do was to keep up a run- 
ning fight in an effort to reach the banks, hoping that 
finally he would see an opportunity to cross the stream 
and again take his way back on the other side. The 
Indians all the time endeavored to keep the Lieutenant 
and his companion as far away from the banks as pos- 
sible. At last, at what was called Ball’s Ford, the one 
soldier made a bold dash for the stream, and when 
near it his horse was shot and he was taken prisoner. 
The Lieutenant turned in his saddle, and seeing the 


BARBARA: 


incident, for an instant thought to return to the cor- 
poral’s rescue, but seeing he was greatly outnumbered, 
kept on his flight, firing as he went. 

Alone as he was now, he determined at the next 
opportunity to make a desperate dash and jump the 
banks at whatever of hazard it might be. Just at that 
moment he passed around the point of a low, marshy 
piece of ground, and as the Indians were well in near 
the shore and he well out, he saw an opportunity to 
reach the banks on the other side before they could. 
Putting spur to his now fast fagging horse, he made a 
dash toward the river. Feeling that he was within a 
few rods of it, he again turned in his saddle and sent 
another shot at the foremost savage, and had the satis- 
faction of knowing he had disabled at least one more 
before he would in all probability be made a prisoner 
or break his neck jumping over into the stream. Then, 
when he was almost certain of success, down went his 
horse. Freeing himself from the stirrups, turning 
and sending a last parting shot at one of his pursuers, 
he struck out on foot. The Indians, knowing the 
locality and the height of the banks, now felt sure of 
his capture. Believing it impossible for him to escape 
them now, the foremost one of them sent a shot after 
the fleeing Lieutenant, then let out one of their blood- 
curdling yells of triumph ! 

In an instant young Beveridge stood on the brink 
of a high bank, sheer fifty feet above the water! 
One glance over his shoulder, then to the right and 
left! Convinced there was no chance for escape save 
in front, he again leveled his pistol and pulled the 
trigger! 


74 


BARBARA : 


“Hell!” he exclaimed, as it failed to go off. 

On came his pursuers; not an instant has he to 
spare ! It is now or not at all ! In a flash he un- 
buckled his belt and let it and his sword drop to the 
ground. Then, without another second’s hesitation, 
he sprang over the bank and disappeared as suddenly 
and completely as if he had been swallowed up by the 
earth. 

On the Indians rushed. Reaching the bank and 
believing the Lieutenant had gone on down stream, 
they took to the north, hoping now that he was afoot 
soon to overtake him. 

As they disappeared down the bank, an Indian 
rose up from out a clump of bushes near the brink 
of the cliff, picked up the arms the Lieutenant had so 
recently dropped, and then was as suddenly gone 
again. 

Not a sound was now audible on the high banks. 
Away down the valley a murmur came back from the 
fast receding Indians— but that was all! Not a living 
soul was anywhere in sight! All had gone as rapidly 
as they had come! 

The Blue Banks were seemingly as silent and 
deserted as if they had never known the tread of the 
Indian or white man. There really seemed an omin- 
ous silence. 

And then, all of a sudden a gloom of darkness from 
an approaching storm, spread over valley and stream, 
while vivid flashes of lightning streaked the south- 
western horizon, and great peals of deepest thunder 
broke the stillness of the autumn evening. 

For a moment only did the pursuing Indians halt 


BARBARA : 


75 


when they reached the open bank to the north of the 
high hills. Where had their victim gone? Then, just as 
another flash of lightning again lit up the air — hark! 
They hear something on the opposite shore, as if of 
some one or something crushing through the bushes. 
Another flash and another peal of deafening thunder, 
and they saw, or thought they did, the form of a 
crouching figure, running rapidly down the other 
shore. It is the Lieutenant! He has swam across! 
And they are off again in an excited chase ! 


CHAPTER FIVE. 


“ There are things of which I may not speak: 

There are dreams that cannot die: 

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak — 
That bring a pallor to the cheek, 

And a mist before the eye.” 

— Longfellow* 


A sudden jump! A flight through the air! Great 
God! Would it never end! Then Lieutenant Bever- 
idge struck, feet first, in the stream below, just beyond 
a heavy growth of bushes at the foot of the cliffs from 
which he had sprung to escape the Indians. 

When he came to the surface he clutched at some- 
thing near him, which he thought was the end of 
a paddle. As he did so, and as he grasped it with his 
hands, he heard a low, sweet voice say in a tremulous 
tone: 

“H-u-s-h! Hold fast and keep still!” 

The admonition was promptly obeyed, and on get- 
ting his breath and his eyes freed of the water, he 
heard the mutterings of the Indians far above, but 
could not see them, as he was hidden by the high 
banks and beneath the bushes. Gradually he worked 

76 


BARBARA: 


77 


his way along by means of whatever he had hold of 
until he was well under the chapparal, all the while 
feeling that some one, not an enemy, must have hold 
of the other end. Then, when he had reached the 
edge of a canoe, he took one look into the still further 
cover of the willows, and — beheld his captor! 

Great heaven ! Could it possibly be a woman ! Prob- 
ably a white person! And as likely as not a squaw! 
He could not tell which. And if his life had been 
the forfeit, he would have done as he did — ask: 

“In heaven’s name, who are you?” 

“Hush!” was all the answer he heard, so soft and 
low, he could scarcely comprehend its meaning, and 
he was utterly at a loss as to what to do. 

But he saw a face and form that would entrance a 
man, even under such unfavorable circumstances as 
this one was! A face slightly bronzed either by 
exposure or nature, yet showing the fresh bloom of 
youth. An arm, bared almost to the shoulder and of 
perfect mould! A form, ye mortal gods! he thought, 
divine enough for an angel ! And a flow of auburn 
hair about a neck of which Diana herself would have 
been proud! 

He saw all this at a glance. Then, realizing all 
at once his imminent peril as he had not before, his 
eyes began closing in spite of all his powers. He felt 
his hold on the paddle giving way. He was sinking ! 
He knew it, but was unable to prevent it. Just then 
something grasped him under the arm — then all 
became a blank. And as he sank out of sight he 
heard the sweetest of voices say, as if it were away off: 

“Ts-o-lo! Ts-o-lo!” 


78 


BARBARA : 


And when he came to — when next he was fully 
aware of himself — he was completely lost as to his sur- 
roundings and his whereabouts, and for that matter, 
as to what he had gone through. How long he had 
been thus oblivious to all occurrences he could not 
tell. Indeed, if he were then really alive, he could 
not well say. Where he was, he could not make out. 
If it were day or night, he did not know. He only 
was sure he was lying on some sort of a cot or bed, and 
in some sort of a room which must be but dimly 
lighted. 

Gradually, as he gathered his wandering senses and 
his eyes became accustomed to the 'darkness, he man- 
aged to make out surrounding objects. But where he 
was, how he came there, or when, was all of the deepest 
mystery to his mind. 

He attempted to raise himself up when he found 
his left arm was helpless and quite painful. Another 
attempt in another way, and his right limb gave an 
ugly twinge. Then he concluded he would lie still 
and await developments. 

After a few moments of waiting and pondering, 
some one entered the room, and as the door opened 
the flood of light revealed to him more fully something 
of his surroundings. The short time the door was 
open be saw the room contained, besides the cot on 
which he lay, a bed, table, chairs and other furniture. 
In the instant he saw that everything looked clean 
and homelike. And he decided at once he was not in 
the hands of the Indians. As the figure entered and 
came closer he could just see the dim outlines of a 
woman. When she^ approached near to his bed and 


BARBARA : 


79 


said in a queer Creole voice, “Good-morning, mon 
ami^ he could not help but ask, as he replied to the 
salutation : 

“Good- morning. Pardon me, but will you tell me 
where I am, and who you are?” 

^ “You are with friends,” was the reply, and it was 
said in a soft, tender voice. “You must try to keep 
still yet for a time. You were so badly hurt by your 
fall last night. Besides, you are wounded. Soon, now, 
you shall have some breakfast, and after that you will 
no doubt feel so much the better.” 

But the young man’s curiosity and desire for 
information were not yet satisfied, and again he 
asked : 

But how did I get here? I have been dreaming, 
or something, that I was drowned. But it certainly 
cannot be so, for all now appears so real. * ’ Yet so 
dazed was his mind that for a certainty he could not 
have told if he really were alive or not. 

“Oh, no; it was not nearly so very bad as that, but 
I guess by what they have told me you cajue very 
near it.” 

The kind, motherly heart of the woman and her 
gentle, soothing voice were having a pleasing effect on 
his mind, while she was fast acquiring a very tender, 
motherly feeling for the beardless young man lying 
there before her so nearly helpless and looking more 
pale and youthful than he really was. Just then, before 
Beveridge could formulate any further inquiries, 
there was a rap at the door, and to the mother’s 
“come in,” it opened again and Barbara entered. 
Again he heard a sweet, low voice say: 


80 


BARBARA : 


“Mother, dear, put up the curtain a little way, will 
you, please?” 

Then, when the light came in undisturbed, and as 
Barbara approached the cot with a tray in her hands, 
the whole event of the day before began to take form 
in his mind. His experiences began coming back to 
him as a dream he might have had for all he knew. 
And he was so completely confused that when she 
addressed him with, “Good-morning, mon amiy' he 
had to try hard the second, time before his tongue 
found its cunning. Then he managed in a dreamy 
sort of way to respond by saying : 

“Good-morning, sweet vision of a thousand 
dreams.” 

“May 1 offer you some breakfast — some toast and 
tea? You must surely be hungry by this time.” 

“May you!” said Beveridge, as if he were surprised 
at the request. “Yes, offer me anything, and I shall 
willingly take it. Only, before I am consumed with 
wild curiosity, please tell me, while you sit here and I 
eat, where I am, how I came here, and if you will, 
who you and your people are.” 

“Ah, mon cher, one question at a time, or 1 shall 
surely forget a part of them,” said the maiden. Then 
she proceeded to arrange the tray on a chair close 
beside him, and drawing another near by, sat down. 

“To begin with — and now you must eat, if I am to 
talk,” she said, as she noticed that the Lieutenant was 
watching her and paying no attention to the breakfast. 
“In your hurry,” she resumed, “to escape from a few 
Indians, who for some reason were overly anxious to 
make your acquaintance, you must either have fallen 


BARBARA: 


81 


or jumped off the Blue Banks, just below our home, 
on the other side of the river from here. 1 chanced to 
be near at the time, with my canoe — so near, in fact, 
that when I saw you coming down I feared you would 
alight on my craft and ruin it.” 

^ ‘‘Then it was you whom I saw in the bushes!” said 
Beveridge, unable to wait longer for her story, and as 
if the whole affair was being fully revealed to him. 

‘‘Yes; and when you saw me, and I you, it was a 
most wonderfully terrified expression that you had. 
When you came close to the canoe and beheld me, 
beneath the bushes, you looked anything but pleased. 
In fact, you appeared to fear me as much as you had 
the Indians.” 

In the meantime, while this conversation was going 
on, the mother had with a deft hand so arranged the 
almost helpless young man that he could assist himself 
to the eatables; and, after passing her hand over his 
forehead, to push back a fallen lock of his almost raven 
black hair (just as a mother would have done to her 
own son), she had gone out and left Barbara to tell 
her story undisturbed. 

As Barbara smiled at the thought of his fear of 
her, Beveridge looked up with his deep blue eyes wide 
open, and with a wondering and inquiring stare, 
caused her to say; 

‘‘You will really have to excuse me if I smile, now; 
then, there was no time to do so, as you kept me 
pretty busy for a few moments. But it did seem to 
me then, and now, that when you saw who it was had 
hold of the other end of the paddle, you just took on 

the most woeful, woe-begone look, and was deter- 
6 


82 


BARBARA: 


mined to prefer drowning to being rescued. Now, 
truly, say if it were not so?” 

“N — o, ” said the Lieutenant, after a brief hesi- 
tancy, and he smiled to see the happy expression 
come and go on the face of the young woman, so close 
beside him, and he hesitated as if he did not know 
just what reply he should make. Then he con- 
tinued : 

‘‘No; I hardly think it was from fear, of you, at 
least. You see, I must have been surprised at finding 
such a deliverer in such an unexpected place and 
manner. And especially when she was so divinely 
fair! No, it was not fear. But I do believe it was a 
clear case of enchantment.” 

''Ah^monami! That was very nicely said. But, 
tell me, why did you not try to save yourself, instead 
of becoming so very heavy that I could scarcely get 
you into the boat? Was that all astonishment?” 

‘‘You, perhaps, have never, all of a sudden and 
unexpectedly, dropped into the presence of the queen 
of the fairies. I have — just once. And, do you 
know, I must have been filled with doubt as to what 
my fate was to be for the intrusion. ’ ’ 

‘‘Well, please do not try the same thing again. 
For, really, it was all I could do to keep you from 
going to the bottom of the river.” 

‘‘How did I get here? If those hills are on the 
other side of the river, how came I here?” 

‘‘What an inquisitive man you are! Indeed, you 
did not float over, for your great inclination was to 
sink. You certainly did not walk. Somehow, I man- 
aged to get you into the boat, where you lay, oh, so 


BARBARA; 


83 


Still— so very quiet that you made me afraid, myself. 
Then, when it was certain the Indians were out of 
sight and sound, and while the electric storm was 
raging and the rain coming down in torrents, I ven- 
tured out from the cover of the bushes, crossed the 
river, and, oh! what a relief it was to meet father 
Beaumont at the mouth of the creek, waiting for my 
return. Really, you were too quiet to please any one, 
and did not appear to care to extend our acquaintance 
very rapidly. Then, when father was over his aston- 
ishment at seeing you lying in the bottom of my boat, 
he picked you up and carried you to our home, just 
as he has me, oh, so many times. And here you are. 
After a time, when mother was over her fright, with 
the aid of Father Jacquese, they succeeded in binding 
up your hurts and injuries, and they both say if you 
remain very quiet for a few days you will have recov- 
ered, and be able to again rejoin your companions. 
Until then, within our rude home you are a welcome 
guest To our humble fare you will have to submit. 
‘Such as we have give we unto thee,’ in true sin- 
cerity.” 

All this while, as Barbara sat and talked, Beveridge 
lay as one in a trance, scarcely breathing, with fear 
that if he spoke or moved he might thereby disturb 
her conversation. His gaze was fixed upon her fair 
young face. She had a most pleasing, musical voice, 
which was added to very much by the smoothness of 
her French education. The intonations were perfect 
and full of an excellent expression. It not only sur- 
prised him, but he felt he could enjoy listening to her 
all day. When she did stop and noted his steady gaze, 


84 


BARBARA : 


her eyes were at once downcast, ana she wondered if 
she had been too communicative. 

“To you, fair maiden, and to your bravery and 
the kindness of your people, am I, indeed, indebted 
for my life. But for you, I am sure I would not now 
be here, and able to express my gratitude. And 
although I should live a thousand years, I shall not be 
able to repay 3"ou. All my life shall I remember you, 
and try in some way to requite the debt I owe you for 
my preservation.” 

“You must try not to get excited, now that the 
affair is all over,” said Barbara, for the Lieutenant’s 
speech was really full of fervency, to say the very 
least, and she feared that he might over-exert himself 
in some way, she did not know how. And so she 
replied: “Try to remain as quiet as you can for a day 
or so, especially if you are anxious to recover. I know 
you must be desirous for the welfare of your compan- 
ions, and to rejoin them. Your danger may not yet 
all be past, but we hope it is. For some time there 
have been roving bands of Indians about. They have 
been passing this way for some days, although, so 
far, we have been undisturbed by them. Still, they are 
more, warlike than we have ever known them to be 
before. Those who were pursuing you were not of 
the tribes here in the valley. They have, so we are 
told, now gone off toward the Maumee country, and 
are not likely to return. We hope they will not. For 
the present your whereabouts is not known, to the 
Indians, at least, nor to any one save our own people. 
You are with those who are friends with the Indians, 
and, if need be, will care for you with their lives. I tell 


BARBARA: 


85 


you this so there need be no uneasiness in your mind 
as to whom you are with, and as to your personal safety 
while in your present helpless condition.” 

Until Barbara had spoken of his companions, Bev- 
eridge had not thought of them. In his first awaken- 
ing from unconsciousness, and afterward, in his bewil- 
derment and supreme surprise, he had forgotten them 
entirely. And now at the first opportunity, when they 
came to his mind, he asked: 

‘‘Do you know what became of those who were' 
with me? Have any of them been here? Or do you 
know if they escaped the Indians?” 

‘‘No, none of them have been here, nor have we 
heard from them directly, nor of their present wherea- 
bouts. Lone Arrow will most likely be here or in the 
neighborhood to-day, and if there has been any way of 
their being heard from he may have some information 
to impart. Both Father Jacquese and father Beaumont 
are on the lookout for whatever may be heard at the 
trading post, and one or both of them will be here 
before very long, now.” 

"God bless you, noble woman, whoever you may 
be. To me you appear as a rescuing angel, sent by a 
kind providence to save me from positive death.” 

As he said this he took Barbara’s hand, which lay 
on the edge of the couch, and in an instant, in true 
cavalier style, had carried it to his lips and pressed it 
with a kiss. 

A flush of lovely maidenhood mantled the shoulders, 
neck and face of the surprised Barbara, at the sudden 
act. Yet, while it was a surprise to her, it did not 
anger her. It was a gentlemanly act, one any man is 


86 


BARBARA : 


justified in committing in true gallantry, and she felt 
it had in that spirit been enacted. For all that, it was 
a surprise. To her it was the first touch of a white 
man, and was as strange to her as her own nativity. 
It was more. It was a new revelation. It was the 
opening of a new life. She was at once filled with a 
new-born inspiration of young womanhood. She had 
even, in the tremor of her excitement, forgotten that 
the young stranger still held her fingers within his 
grasp. Slowly she withdrew them, hesitating to sever 
a bond of so much new-found pleasure. Gradually, 
even with a reluctance on his part as well as her’s, 
they were released, and as she started to go, the blush 
yet resting on her cheek, she said: 

“I must go, now, for a time, at least. Soon father 
Beaumont will be here, and he will no doubt be able 
to entertain you with some sort of news of your com- 
panions. Until then, rest easy and do not let any noises 
you may hear outside disturb you any more than pos- 
sible. We shall try and keep everything as quiet as 
we can, and more than likely you can get a sleep that 
will do you much good. And” (as she arose from her 
seat and started to leave the cot, she carelessly, like 
the mother had done, put her hand on his forehead 
and brushed back a lock of his hair), ‘‘be assured we 
shall try in some way to get word to your friends.” 

That touch upon his brow, like the tremor of her 
hand when he held it, had captured him completely. 
He was her captive, and she could lead him where she 
would. It was a simple act. The mother had done 
the same thing when adjusting the pillow under his 
head, but it had not affected him so. Barbara’s touch 


BARBARA : 


87 


had gone through him like an electric shock, and when 
she turned to go from the couch, he again reached out 
and caught her hand, and in a pleading tone and in 
deep earnestness, said: 

“You will come again soon, will you not?” 

“Yes, mother and I shall try not to let you grow 
too weary of your forced stay with us. Take a little 
rest, now, if you can; it will help you to recover the 
sooner. And when father Beaumont comes home he 
may have some good news to impart.” 

Then, lowering the curtain, she passed out of the 
room, closing the door behind her. As she did, it 
seemed to the Lieutenant that the light of his soul had 
gone out with her. His heart was in a strange condi- 
tion of expectancy. He was filled with a strong, 
desire, he knew not what — nor why. The face, the 
sweet voice of Barbara, had struck home, had entered 
his very being. What was she, he pondered, that she 
should thus so completely overcome him? True, she 
it was who had saved him from death. He knew 
that, and was so full of earnest gratitude he could not 
express his thoughts to her, so sincere he did not know 
how to speak his thankfulness — but this other feeling! 
What of it! Could it be something beside his thank- 
fulness! Beyond gratitude! There was another, he 
was sure. Then he asked himself: “Do I love her?” 
And from sheer exhaustion, and in the midst of all his 
ponderings, he fell into a deep and refreshing sleep. 

And what of Barbara! She had gone into the room 
a young and, to all appearance, a thoughtless, happy 
girl. In that short hour she had passed through a 
strange transformation. She had dropped her girlish 


88 


BARBARA : 


Spirit, and in some way had taken on the thoughtful 
and more mature aspect of a noble woman. There 
before her, almost helpless, and in a very great meas- 
ure dependent on her, lay the man she had rescued 
from death. But for that one strange incident — that 
she was there at the foot of the cliff — he would, she 
knew too well, now be lying at the bottom of the 
river. She had saved him, had brought him to her 
home, to be cared for by herself and her people. All 
this, until now, without a thought of his or her future. 
And now, what! 

Think as she would — as she did — and the more she 
thought, the farther she was away from a solution. 
In the midst of these reveries she had wandered from 
the house, down the creek bank that ran along in 
front of the house and emptied into the river below. 
She had seated herself beneath the broad-spreading 
branches of a vine-covered beech, and had drifted 
away off into another and a newer day-dream — one that 
had never before occupied her mind — and was so 
deeply absorbed that she had forgotten herself and all 
her surroundings. 

Who was he? Had she asked him? No, she 
believed not. She had not even thought to, and he 
had not told her. That was strange, on her part as 
well as his, for she had not told him what her own 
name was, nor that of the parents. And now, when 
she came to think of it, she was anxious to know all 
about him — his name, of his home, and everything he 
could tell. Yes, she would ask him, if he himself did 
not speak, the next time she was with him. 

She was buried thus in deep thought when her one 


BARBARA : 


89 


special friend, Jannice, slipped up behind her, and 
clasping her arms about her neck, gave her a girlish 
kiss upon her cheek. The touch brought Barbara to 
with a great start, as Jannice exclaimed: 

‘‘Ah, Barbara, where have you been all 

the day? Twice before have 1 been looking for you, 
and nowhere could you be found. And so was Bernard 
on the look for you. Nor yet could he see you about. 
Were you so very busy? Or have you been sick, ma 
chereT’’ 

Thus she rattled on, her rich French voice and 
accent, and her loving nature completely upsetting 
Barbara and all her reveries, flooding her with inqui- 
ries, and not giving her a chance to make a reply to 
half that she asked. Always had Barbara been glad 
of Jannice’s companionship, but at this particular time 
she would have preferred to have finished out her 
thoughts without interruption. But now that they 
were gone, scattered to the winds, she made room for 
her on the log beside her, pulled her down, and with 
an arm about her waist, they were very soon busy 
exchanging their small stock of information, such as 
young people always have in their possession. Finally, 
after having studied Barbara’s face for several 
moments, Jannice exclaimed: 

“Why, Barbara dear, whatever is the matter with 
you! Your cheeks, they are so red, as if you had the 
fever, and you are so very peculiar. You act all the 
time as if you did not hear the words I am speaking. 
Come, dear, are you sick? Or, what is the matter?” 

“No, my dear Jannice, I am not sick. Rather, I 
am so happy this day that I feel like” — she was on 


90 


BARBARA; 


the point of saying “being left alone, when, realizing 
how unfriendly that would sound, she continued — 
“really, my dear Jannice, I do not know what. But 
I am not sick. Yet, somehow, if I tried the least bit, 
I should cry over nothing; but I’m not going to.” 

“Well, whatever has happened! I never knew you 
to be in such a mood before, nor to say such things! 
I know something has occurred. Come, now,” 
Jannice continued, after a short pause, “if you are so 
happy, let me be happy with you. If you are ill, and 
that is what I fear is the trouble, tell me. You will 
soon make me unhappy if you do not.’’ 

“Jannice, dear, I am not sick. Do you really think 
I look like it?’’ — and she.let her face beam with one of 
her old-time smiles. “No, 1 thought not. Yet, 1 
cannot tell you what does ail me. It is not that I do 
not still love you, my only dear friend. It is — why, 
really, Jannice, I do not know what to say to yoii, 
only I feel in some way, oh, so happy.’’ 

Putting her arm about Barbara’s neck, as fond, 
companionable young women are wont to do, when 
they wish to console one another, and as these two 
had done all their lives, and as all women do who enter 
into each other’s joys and sorrows, Jannice replied: 

“Now, Barbara, you know that your happiness is 
mine, and that your sorrows always grieve me. Let 
me now share, as ever, your thoughts, be they happy 
ones, or otherwise. May 1 not possibly be able to 
'make you still more happy by being so myself, and by 
being able to help you?’’ 

To these appeals of her life-long friend the heart of 
Barbara was too strongly touched not to reveal her 


BARBARA : 


91 


secret, and so she proceeded to tell her of all the 
strange experiences of the past few hours, that now 
appeared like weeks. 

“It was so very singular that I should have been 
there, and at such a time — so much later than ever 
before. When I heard the shots, away up on the hill, 
at first 1 took them to be some of Lone Arrow’s 
people, and thought little of them. But they were 
followed so soon after by the yells of triumph, and 
then my heart stood still with fear and wonder. 
Scarcely had my canoe gone beneath the cover of the 
bushes when I either heard or saw a man coming down 
through the air and strike in the water not five feet 
away. To get him to take hold of the paddle was the 
first thought that came to me, and then when he 
reached the side of the canoe he began sinking as if 
he were dying. To get him into the boat and then 
across the river was no easy task, for he was uncon- 
scious— had fainted, or something— and beside had 
been wounded. And then you should have seen 
father Beaumont look, when he saw the young man 
lying in the bottom of my boat, all so quiet and still.” 

She told of how the wounded man had been taken 
to her home, of the priest attending him during the 
night, of his remaining unconscious until morning- 
told her all, in detail, save of the scene between the 
two, just given. That she kept to herself, most dis- 
creetly. 

“Oh, my! what a pretty romance, indeed! No 
wonder you have looked so excited. It is enough to 
make one want to laugh and cry, both. Myself! 
Why, I should not know how to act. And to think 


92 


BARBARA : 


you were not going to tell me! Isn’t it all so lovely? 
Say, Barbara, is he tall? Is he handsome? And a 
soldier? Come, tell me, what is he like? And what 
is his name? It is all so wonderful!” 

Finally, stopping more from exhaustion than to 
give a chance for reply, when she did cease, Barbara 
said: 

“I have not learned his name yet,” indirectly, to 
all the questions, echoing the thoughts that had so 
recently occupied her own mind. “Nor do I even 
know where he comes from. If he is tall, or if he is 
handsome, I cannot say. All has been so strange and 
startling, since his coming, that I can hardly say what 
he is like. ” 

“Well!” said Jannice, in a tone of astonishment, 
for it was all most wonderful to her, and of so marvel- 
ous a nature she could scarcely comprehend it all. 
“Well!” she repeated again, as if yet not fully under- 
standing the purport of the whole affair. ‘‘It is most 
strange, indeed! But I tell you, Barbara, he could 
not come to my home and remain there so long as he 
has at yours, without my knowing his name, and if he 
were tall or short, handsome or not. I am sure, now, 
Barbara, that you have been too much excited for 
your own good, and that is what makes your cheeks so 
very red — much more so than usual. But who could 
help it! Why, I, myself, would be bubbling over with 
the strange excitement of the event. I would go tell- 
ing it to all my friends — to every one I met. Oh, I 
could not keep the secret” — 

‘‘Possibly you would,” said Barbara, not waiting 
for her to finish. ‘‘But that is what we do not wish 


BARBARA ; 


93 


done, just now. For, do you not see, my dear, that 
might put the Indians on his track again?” 

‘‘No, that would not do, would not be wise, surely. 
I had not stopped to think of that — only of the strange 
incident, of the undefinable pleasure of having a 
strange young man in the home. And one whose 
name you do not know ! One whom you had never 
seen before! And to come in such a strange manner! 
Why, Barbara, I do not wonder at your being excited ! 
When I come to think it all over, 1 am very sure I 
could not contain myself, not half as well as you 
have. ’ ’ 

*‘Yes,” said Barbara, slowly, as she sat down 
again and let her thoughts run over the strange 
event. And then Jannice began a string of inquiries, 
compelling Barbara to once more go through the 
whole affair, explaining it all in detail. And so the 
two talked on for an hour or more on the same topic. 

It was a wonderfully strange affair, surely. Who, of 
them all, had ever dreamed of such a thing! In all 
their quiet life there in the valley, some startling 
things had come to them, it was true, but nothing like 
this. Usually it was a humdrum existence; but here 
was a mystery deep enough to arouse the curiosity of 
any community. No wonder if Barbara’s cheeks were 
flushed. And it was not strange if Jannice, too, was 
full of excitement and questions. For she was ever 
overflowing with energy, at all times, her warm 
French nature showing in every vein of her body. 
Dark of complexion, vivacious in the extreme, petite of 
form, and with a disposition made up of love and kind- 
ness, she was just the opposite in many things to that 


94 


BARBARA: 


of her companion. The one would go wild over some 
incident, while the other wanted to sit down and con- 
sider and think of it — no doubt as much impressed by 
the circumstance, but affected in another way. 

They were still thus engaged in comments when 
Bernard, the brother of Jannice, came upon them and 
broke into their retreat beneath the vine-covered tree. 

“Well!” he exclaimed, as if in surprise, “I have 
found you at last! Everywhere have I been looking 
for you. Whom are you hiding from?” 

“Oh, from you,” said Jannice. “You have been 
doing the hunting and we the hiding.” 

The young fellow was such an one as might be 
found in all these frontier settlements and among such 
a people — honest, modest, manly, and as fearless as 
the savages all about them. Unaccustomed to the 
companionship of women, even with his own sister he 
was diffident and of a retired disposition. He 
admired Barbara, and had often, in his abashed man- 
ner, sought her company. While she had for him that 
kindly feeling of friendship which must of necessity 
exist under their home circumstances and associations, 
her esteem had never once thought of going any 
farther. Affection for him had never once entered 
her mind. She liked him and his company well 
enough, for he was entertaining in a way, but she pre- 
ferred him always when Jannice was present also. 

Not so with Bernard. He admired Barbara and could 
not help showing it, yet he was of that manly disposi- 
tion which kept him from imposing himself on her; 
in fact, was sensitive to a degree in that regard, and 
it only took a word to send him off, not in an ugly 


BARBARA : 


95 


mood, but possibly with injured feelings. He was 
wise enough, as he grew older, to see and understand 
that beyond the bonds of a true friendship she had 
little or no sentiment for him. He loved to talk with 
her, and sought and made opportunities to impart to 
her any and all information that came to him, giving 
it to her first, if possible. In everything he was one of 
those men who, if circumstances had not arisen to 
prevent it, would have continued on in his silent, per- 
sistent way until some day, when all hope was lost for 
another and a happier life, and when she had given up 
all anticipations for the realization of her day-dreams, 
she might have consented to settle down and waste an 
existence here in the valley. 

Barbara knew his nature well, so that now, when 
he came to them, she was sure he had something of 
news to impart, and she was quick to reply to Jannice’s 
little bit of repartee by saying to him ; 

“No, Bernard, we were not hiding from any one; 
not from you, I assure you. We were merely enjoying 
ourselves. Tell us, can you, what there is of news up 
at the post?" 

“Oh, there is lots of news this morning. They are 
telling of a man who jumped off the Blue Banks last 
night in order to escape some Indians who were pur- 
suing him, and who, some think, was drowned, and 
others that he got away from them.” 

Then he proceeded to relate to them all that he 
had heard, and what had been said about the strange 
circumstance among the trappers and Indians at the 
trading store; of a squad of soldiers who were coming 
down the valley and had been attacked by a band of 


96 


BARBARA : 


roving Indians; that one of them had been captured 
a few miles up the river, and that the balance, except 
the one who had jumped off the high banks, had 
returned again up the valley; that during the night 
the one of the soldiers who had been captured had 
escaped from the Indians, and that he too had disap- 
peared. 

“Some of them say that the one who escaped them 
at the Blue Banks must be in hiding somewhere in 
this neighborhood. The Indians were out watching 
for him most of the night, but they have now given 
up and gone away. Several of the neutral nation 
braves were out nearly all night; what for, I do not 
know, and they do not tell, but probably watching the 
strange Indians.” 

The heart of Barbara gave a great jump through a 
part of the story told by Bernard, and when he ceased 
the flush had left her cheeks and was replaced by a 
strange pallor. She was not afraid to trust Bernard, 
but she thought, suppose the whereabouts of the 
stranger should become known, and an attempt be 
made by the Indians to take him! Would they 
succeed? 

“How did you learn all this, Bernard?” she asked 
as soon as she could overcome her astonishment at the 
thought that the affair was publicly known. 

“Why, it was generally talked of by all up at the 
trading post, by Indians and trappers. Most of them 
believe the soldier swam the river and made his 
escape, and I believe he is now hiding somewhere in 
the neighborhood at some of the homes.” 

“Why, Bernard!” exclaimed Barbara. 


BARBARA : 


97 


“What if he were wounded, and now lay dying 
somewhere! Possibly not far away from us here!” 
said Jannice, and she actually said it in that sort of a 
tone as if she meant what she was saying. 

Both Barbara and Bernard looked at her in aston- 
ishment, the one in surprise to hear her so express 
herself, and the other as if he ought to believe she 
knew more about the affair than he himself. 

What else did you hear?” asked Barbara, more to 
relieve Bernard than to obtain other information. 

“Nothing beside what I have told you. Everybody 
is talking about it. Hadn’t you girls heard anything 
of it?” he asked, for some way he began to feel they 
were better informed than himself. They had not 
seemed nearly so much surprised as he thought they 
would be, or at least not in the way he had expected. 

Yes, said Barbara, “we had heard a part of what 
you have told us, but not all of it. Have you heard 
anything else of the affair beside that you have told?” 

“Why, no. I have related all I know. What else 
is there to know?” he asked in turn, thinking in his 
own mind that if the soldier were in hiding they pos- 
sibly knew something of it. And yet he thought 
again, how could they find out anything about it? 
And he asked again in something of a quandary, 
“What else is there to know?” 

“Oh, nothing that we can tell,” answered Barbara. 
This more than ever impressed him with the notion 
that they were keeping a secret from him and to them- 
selves, and he said in a sort of injured tone: 

“Girls, I can’t tell you anything you do not already 

know. I believe you are both better informed than I 
7 


98 


BARBARA : 


am, and should not be surprised if you know where 
the soldier is in hiding.” 

‘‘Why, Bernard!” said Jannice, ‘‘what makes you 
think that? If you believe he is hiding here, any- 
where, why do you not go looking for him? We will 
help you.” 

“Oh, will you? Well, I do not think I shall spend 
my time that way just now. But I think I could find 
him if I searched very far.” 

And he had not another word to say on the subject, 
and after a few moments he left them. As soon as he 
was gone, Barbara asked : 

“Jannice, had he told you anything of this before 
we met?” 

“No, truly, he had not. It is the first time I have 
seen him since early this morning.” 

‘It is strange indeed that anyone should know 
about it, unless the Indians themselves or Father 
Jacquese or father Beaumont have talked about it. 
It all happened so suddenly, and I am sure no one 
was around at the time.” 

She did not know that Lone Arrow had been so 
near her, for it was he who had lain hidden in the 
bushes at the moment when Lieutenant Beveridge 
took his leap— even before that event had occurred. 
Nor did she know that his keen eyes had kept watch 
of her the most of that afternoon from out another 
clump of bushes but a few rods away from her, on up 
the stream. If she had, it might have proven a solu- 
tion of much of the affair to her just then. 

It would have explained to her why the pursuing 
Indians had gone on down stream instead of searching 


BARBARA : 


99 


the banks along the foot of the cliffs, thus making it 
easy for her to escape with their intended prisoner. 
For when Lone Arrow had secured the arms the Lieu- 
tenant had let drop, he slipped into the stream, swam 
quietly across, and managed to let the pursuing sav- 
ages see him, and in the growing darkness of the 
gathering storm and in the cover of the bushes take 
him for the escaping soldier. In their mistake they 
rode on down stream, crossed over at the ford, and 
spent an hour in a vain search for their victim. Then, 
when Lone Arrow thought Barbara had been able to 
reach her home in safety, he gave the Indians the 
slip, and going to his own people informed some of 
the braves of the incident. Three of them accom- 
panied him back up the river, and during the night 
lay hidden in the tall grass and bushes near the Beau- 
mont home, never giving up their vigils until the first 
early rays of morning. All through the forenoon, and 
even then, when Barbara and Jannice sat chatting 
there, beneath the shadow of the grape vine, their 
dusky forms might have been seen flitting here and 
there on no particular errand, only that it was natural 
for them to roam at will, at all times, everywhere. 

Then in the night, when Lone Arrow had stationed 
these braves of his on the watch, and after feeling that 
for a time at least all was secure there, he had pro- 
ceeded on up the river to where the invading Indians 
had gone into camp for the night, as he told his com- 
panions, to watch their movements and to learn if pos- 
sible what were their intentions. He hovered about 
their camp-fire the most of the night, and when he 
returned late the next day. it was from an entirely 

LofC. 


100 


BARBARA: 


different direction, and his Indian face wore a most 
peculiar expression of satisfaction. 

During the afternoon of that day, while the young 
braves were listlessly wandering up and down the 
banks of the stream. Lone Arrow was devoting his 
attention to the marauding party, trying to be sure 
they took the right road back toward the Maumee 
country, and to be certain they committed no further 
depredations. The one thing that pleased him the 
most, and that he smiled the broadest over (for an 
Indian seldom if ever does such a thing), was that they 
finally went away empty-handed, not even having in 
their possession the one prisoner they had taken up 
the valley the afternoon before. What had become of 
him no one appeared to know, and when the Indians 
themselves were asked by the trappers, they gave 
replies only in gutteral sounds. Long afterward, 
when Lieutenant Beveridge had recovered and rejoined 
his troopers over on the banks of the Auglaize, he 
learned much about the affair that until then had 
remained a mystery to both him and Barbara. 

“Well,” said Barbara, as a continuation of their 
conversation, after Bernard had gone, “you will not 
reveal what I have told you of the soldier’s wherea- 
bouts, will you, dear?” 

“Why, no, indeed, Barbara; not for anything in 
the world. Not a word to anyone will I speak of 
where he is. Trust me as you always have. But I 
would like ever so much to see the man you have a 
prisoner at your home— just a little peep— to see how 
a strange young man, and a soldier at that, really 
looks. ’ ’ 


BARBARA: 


101 


“You shall have the opportunity as soon as it is 
possible,” said Barbara, “and I know he will prove 
interesting to you, too.” 

They talked on for some moments after Bernard 
left them, and could have continued longer, but Bar- 
bara felt she ought to be at the home to assist the 
mother, and beside, she felt a longing to be there that 
was strange to her. She was honest with herself, and 
in her mind said : 

“It is because the soldier is there. I am anxious 
to know his name and his life history.” 

At last they arose from their seats and went together 
to the house, parting at the gate of the rough picket 
fence — parting as they had met, with a kiss, and a 
promise on the part of Barbara that as soon as it was 
possible Jannice should meet the stranger. 

“You must not think you can keep him all to your- 
self, simpl}’’ because you discovered him. I shall 
surely see him, and shall do my best to capture him 
from you. For you know, my dear, ‘everything is 
fair in love and war,’ ” said Jannice as they parted. 

During the remainder of the day Barbara was kept 
busy assisting the mother about the affairs of the 
home ; for now, with the stranger in the house, there 
was no time for ramblings along the river. And to 
tell the truth, Barbara did not once think of what had 
for so many years been an almost daily occurrence and 
an afternoon enjoyment. Her thoughts were most 
thoroughly taken up with another subject. 

Occasionally she would tiptoe to the door of the 
room in which the Lieutenant lay, and, oh, so very 
softly, she would lift the wooden latch, open it just a 


102 


BARBARA : 


little, and listen. By the heavy breathings she was 
sure he was still sleeping. Then she would tiptoe 
back to the mother, and they would talk the very 
strange event all over again, only each time would 
take up some new incident connected with it. To them 
it was the strangest thing that ever came into their 
lives. It was something they could not say enough 
about, even if they did tell it all over and over again. 
The raids of the Indians, the troubles that frequently 
took place at the trading post, and all the strange 
incidents that come into such a pioneer life as they 
were leading, were tame, indeed, when compared to 
this. Its conditions were so unheard of. There was 
a personal interest in it all. 

Here was a young man, a stranger, come from 
where, none of them knew yet; almost from the 
clouds; a soldier, no doubt on some mysterious mis- 
sion; a white man, and one all so strange to that 
region. The coming to their home of Lone Arrow, 
when he had been so badly injured, was an event that 
caused a commotion at the time. But that was noth- 
ing compared to this. Why, the very manner of the 
stranger’s coming was a marvel in itself. His rescue, 
too, was as remarkable as his sudden appearance. 
Had he of a sudden dropped from the sky, it could not 
have been much more strange than it was, and as a 
consequence every little detail that could be thought 
of was told over and over. 

“How soundly he sleeps!” said Barbara, after one 
of her visits to the door of his room. “Do you think 
he is all right?” 

Oh, yes, my dear. He will become awake now 


BARBARA : 


103 


soon. His sleep, after his great excitement, will do 
him much good. His unconscious condition for so 
long, and the medicines given to him in his drink 
through the night, are making him sleep to give him 
strength. Oh, but I was alarmed much during the 
night! I was so afraid he would die!” 

“Why, mother! You do not think that now, do 
you?” And the scared look on Barbara’s face told the 
anguish she felt at the thought. 

Oh, no, not now. He is indeed doing very well 
at present. His wounds are as nothing to what we 
feared at first. When he awakes again, then he will 
be so very much better, and then he will soon be well. ” 

‘‘I am so glad to hear you say so. I do hope there 
is no great danger now. Why, mother, if he should 
die, it would”--and she paused, for she saw she was 
exposing her feelings too plainly, and then as the 
mother looked up at her, she continued: ‘‘Why, it 
would be terrible. We do not even know his name, - 
nor where he comes from — not even where he lives 
when at home. 1 do hope he will get well!” 

‘‘Did you not ask him his name, and did he not tell 
you? Nor that of his people, nor of his home?” asked 
the mother, 

“No, I really never thought of it, nor to ask him, 
and he did not say. Is it not strange that he did not 
mention it himself? And that we do not know yet 
who he is, nor where he comes from?” 

“Oh, no, not so very strange, ma chere. For think 
of the medicines and of what he has gone through. 
He will be more awake when we give him his meal 
soon. Then he will talk.” 


104 


BARBARA : 


The father came in while they were yet discussing 
the Lieutenant’s situation, and then the whole affair 
was talked over again. Barbara slipped to the door 
once more, only to find the young man still sleeping. 
The three of them — the father, mother, and Barbara 
— were still fully employed in telling of this and that 
feature of the event, when Father Jacquese called. 
After learning that he was sleeping so soundly, he 
said he would not disturb him, but would come again 
later in the day. Then he and Beaumont went out on 
the porch, and while enjoying a glass of claret and a 
light lunch from the cupboard of Madame Beaumont, 
they too went into a detailed rehearsal of the marvel- 
ous rescue Barbara had accomplished, single-handed 
and alone. 

“1 tell you, Beaumont, that girl is a wonder! Have 
you stopped yet to think of the miraculous incident? 
Why, it is to my mind most wonderful. A little 
woman like her! To be there at the time is of itself 
strange. And then, when he had lost consciousness, 
how in the world did she ever succeed in getting him 
into that canoe without upsetting it? I cannot under- 
stand it, and look at it as a wonder they were not both 
drowned. Why, the man must weigh nigh onto a 
hundred and seventy pounds, and she, why, she is 
only a slip of a girl! No, she is not a girl, but a grand 
woman, and a brave and determined one, at that.” 

‘‘Yes, and every pound of him was dead weight, 
as I can assure you,” said, Beaumont. ‘‘And he grew 
heavier at every step from the river to the home. 1 
really thought at one time he was dead.” 

'“Beaumont, that girl will do anything she under- 


BARBARA: 


105 


takes. Many a one would have screamed with fright. 
And then what? Wh}^ the soldier would have been 
found by the Indians, and captured or drowned. And 
what of her? A prisoner, too. And I shall wager 
she never once had a thought of fear. She was all 
taken up with doing a certain thing, and she did it. 
Now, the young man cannot get away short of two 
weeks, if then. And, Beaumont, in that time he is 
sure to leave some lasting impressions on Barbara’s 
mind, or she is not the girl I take her to be. The 
affair is all too remarkable an incident to go on with- 
out some final results out of the ordinary. He is young 
and interesting, a stranger, a soldier, and a white 
man. He looks intelligent and seems of good breeding 
and blood. Under all the circumstances he cannot 
but prove interesting to her. And she, why, look at 
her! What a noble looking woman she has grown. 
What will she not appear to him? We must learn 
who he is, and what he is, and then if all is well, let 
circumstances govern all things accordingly.'' 

“Why, what in the world do you mean?” asked 
Beaumont, for he had utterly failed to catch the 
meaning of the priest’s thoughts. 

“Just this: that young folks — strangers — thrown 
together as these two will now be for a time, even 
under the most ordinary circumstances, are likely to 
form attachments for each other that have but one 
ending. It has always been so, and always will be.” 

“Nonsense! Why, Barbara is but a child yet. 
And besides, the man is a total stranger.” 

“Do you think so? Then just wait and see!” 
replied the priest. “Besides do you not realize that 


106 


BARBARA : 


Barbara is no longer a child? Can you count back on 
your fingers to the year when she first came to you? 
A child! Forsooth! Why, man, she is almost a full 
grown woman. Yes, possibly to you yet the dear 
child she has ever been.” 

For a moment they sat in silence, Beaumont with 
downcast look, and the priest intently watching him. 
Then, as if he had been pondering over what had been 
said, he looked up and replied: 

“Well, well, time does go by more rapidly than we 
think, especially with regard to the things of life we 
so much enjoy. I would not have thought it was so 
long ago. ’ ’ 

Then they drifted off into another discussion of the 
soldier and of his companions. And after a time the 
priest left, promising to come again either that even- 
ing or in the morning. Beaumont sat there for a time 
in deepest thought, thinking no doubt of what the 
priest had said concerning Barbara. Sat there pon- 
dering as he had done once before on the words of the 
same man on a then, as now, to him most serious and 
interesting subject. Then after a time he arose and 
went inside the house. 

But he could not help thinking when he met Bar- 
bara face to face how closely connected the two con- 
versations were, although so many years apart. Then 
it was, should the little one come into their hearts and 
home to be loved by them and become part of their 
very beings? And now it was an intimation that after 
all there must come a time when she would go out of 
their lives and away from their home forever. From 
infancy to womanhood — how short the span, he 


BARBARA : 


107 


thought. And how happy! No wonder that he gazed 
at her with such wistful eyes, and. that she, feeling 
their penetrating influence, should have been drawn 
to him, and placing her arm about his shoulder, should 
have said in all the sweetness of her voice, always so 
full of meaning; 

“Well, father, dear, are you tired?” 

Pressing a kiss upon her forehead, he answered. 
Some, my child, but I think I shall go in and see the 
stranger. ” 


CHAPTER SIX. 


“Strange to me now are the forms I meet: 

But the native air is pure and sweet.” 

— Longfellow. 


It was well along in the afternoon when young 
Beveridge was aroused from the deep sleep he had 
fallen into after Barbara had left him. As soon as 
he was fully awake he heard voices outside the house, 
which he soon took to be those of men, and they were 
saying : 

“And what became of the balance of the soldiers? 
Have they been heard from?’’ 

“They must have succeeded in crossing the stream 
far up the country, and after riding down this way, 
and not finding their companions, miist have concluded 
they had either been captured or killed, and then rode 
off to the south again. The one that followed the 
young man within, the one who lost his horse and was 
taken prisoner up the river about a mile, managed to 
escape during the night, and no one knows where he 
has gone. His getting away was quite mysterious. 
It is thought he had some assistance, but from whom 

108 


BARBARA: 


109 


no one seems to know. Have you any idea whom it 
could have been?” 

“How should I know?” And then, as if in an after- 
thought: “Unless it was Lone Arrow. He was out 
all night I guess, and it would be just like one of his 
wild freaks in search for excitement.” 

The tones of the last speaker were full of sugges- 
tiveness, and might be taken to imply a knowledge of 
the affair or not. 

“The Indians have disappeared for the present at 
least,” said the other, without making any allusion to 
what had been said about the release of the captive 
soldier. “They have taken the trail back toward the 
Maumee country, and it is believed they will not 
return again. I saw Lone Arrow this afternoon, and 
he promised to keep watch of them and let us know if 
they did come this way again.” 

The voices then ceased or passed out of the hearing 
of the Lieutenant, and while he was yet wondering 
who and what they were, there came a rap at the 
door, and to his response, “Come in,” it opened 
softly, and a man of quite a massive form entered. It 
was Beaumont, who, seeing the man on the couch 
move, approached, and taking the proffered hand of 
Beveridge, sat down and said : 

“Well, my dear sir, I see you are feeling much 
better than last night. You had a very close call, 
though, and a most exciting escape surely.*’ 

As Beveridge returned the salutation, and as 
Beaumont talked, he said to himself, “This must be 
the father.” Then he replied to him: 

“Yes, sir, much better, I assure you. And I want 


110 


BARBARA : 


to say to you now, that to you and to your noble 
daughter do I owe my life. Oh, yes, I do," said he, 
as Beaumont began to smile and shake his head. 
"But for her and her timely presence I would not 
now be able to thank you and her for my life. There 
was no hope for me if she had not been there." 

"Oh, I think you would have come out all right in 
some other way. You see, your time had not come. 
We are all placed in this life for some purpose, and 
until that duty is performed we just go on living, no 
matter what circumstances may transpire.'’ 

And he said it with such earnestness that under the 
circumstances Beveridge did not care to argue the 
point, and, changing the subject, asked: 

"Tell me, if you can and will, how it became 
possible for me to pound myself up so badly. Why, I 
feel as if every bone in my body had been twisted or 
broken. ’ ’ 

"Well, the wound in your shoulder " 

What! Had I been shot?" broke in the Lieuten- 
ant, not being able to wait for Beaumont to finish. 

"Oh, yes. That you no doubt received before 
you took that fearful plunge into the river. An 
older man than you would never have taken that 
chance. The wrench to your knee, which was almost 
broken well, it is hard to say if you do not know what* 
caused that. It must have been done by a fall, either 
when your horse went down or when you jumped over 
the high bank. But it is strange that you did not 
break your neck instead." 

Yes, and it is strange that I did not know that I 
had been hit by the shots of the Indians. And still 


BARBARA: 


111 


I do remember a peculiar dullness in my arm when I 
attempted to unbuckle my belt.” 

“Well, it was all very providential, for if the bullet 
had not hit your shoulder blade it might have proven 
a fatal shot. Father Jacquese, who was here but a few 
moments ago to inquire about you, and who is our 
only medical adviser and spiritual minister, says 
neither injury is in any sense serious. He extracted 
the bullet last night while you were yet unconscious, 
and says with good care and a few days’ rest you will 
soon be on your feet again, and ready to join your 
companions, whom we now believe to be on their way 
up the valley. ’ ’ 

“Have you heard from them directly?’ asked Bev- 
eridge. “Do you know if all of them escaped?” 

“No, we have not heard from them direct, but 
friendly Indians whom we think have seen them are 
of the opinion that they have all gone back up the 
valley toward where the army must be. Even the one 
they held a prisoner has escaped them, and he too is 
away in safety. All you can do for the present is to 
rest easy and content yourself if you can. You are 
welcome to our home and its humble hospitality. It is 
a pleasure to us to assist you and do what we can to 
aid in your recovery. Until that time, until you are 
able to travel, consider this your home as well as our 
own.” 

“I am utterly unable to find words to express my 
gratitude. Your kind hospitality is so far beyond 
what can generally be found that anything I might 
say would be inadequate to the occasion. And 1 can 
only hope some day, some way, other than by mere 


112 


BARBARA ; 


words, to show my appreciation. I am not accustomed 
to confinement, and shall endeavor therefore to reach 
a recovery as speedily as may be.” 

“May I ask to what part of the army you belong, 
and how you came to wander so far down into the 
Sandusky valley?” inquired Beaumont. 

“Certainly. 1 belong to a Kentucky company of 
troopers in the army under General Harrison, who is 
now I presume making his way down toward the 
Maumee country. It was at his special orders that 
myself and a squad of troopers attempted to penetrate 
the valley in order to ascertain the condition of the 
Indian tribes located along the Sandusky river. On 
our way down a few miles up the valley we ran onto 
a band of Indians, and they attacking us we soon 
became engaged in a skirmish with them. They 
greatly outnumbered us, and in the running fight 
myself and one of the troopers were cut olf from the 
rest. Being closely pressed and in danger of capture, 
after my companion was made a prisoner, I devoted 
all my efforts to an attempt to reach the banks of the 
river, intending to jump in, swim over, and if possible 
make my escape. Before I could do so my horse was 
shot, and I then started out on foot. AVhen I arrived 
at the banks they were much higher than I had 
counted on; but it was jump or be captured, and I 
jumped, first leaving my side-arms on the hill behind 
me.” 

“It was a great risk to take, and if you had at- 
tempted to make it on your horse there is no telling 
what the consequences might have been under the 
circumstances. It was no doubt fortunate for you 


BARBARA : 


113 


that your horse was shot, and that you made the leap 
as you did. ” 

“Possibly, but there was no time to consider con- 
sequences just then. The Indians were in hot pursuit 
of me, and whatever was done had to be on the 
spur of the moment.” After a pause Beveridge 
resumed by saying: “My home is near Lexington, 
Kentucky. My -father owns and operates a large 
tobacco plantation there. Our names are Beveridge. 
Mine is George. Father was with General Wayne 
when he was down in this region in 1794, you see 
I was trying to follow in his footsteps and be a soldier 
too. But somehow I am just now quite a ways off 
the track. ” 

“In some things you might be a great deal worse 
off. You might be a prisoner in the hands of a lot of 
reckless savages, and that would be far less agreeable 
than the present situation,” said Beaumont, in what 
he intended as an effort to cheer the man up. 

“Well, my father was a captive for a short time in 
the hands of the Indians while he was campaigning 
with General Wayne, now that I come to think of it. 
He too was wounded — at the battle of the Fallen 
Timbers, I think they called it. He was released from 
the Indians during the night of his capture by a 
young Indian scout, an interpreter and guide who 
was with Wayne’s army. That was over in the Mau- 
mee valley. Do you know how far it is from here?” 

“Straight across the country it is about thirty 
miles,” said Beaumont. “You say that was in 1794?“ 

“Yes, sir; father was a captain of a company of 
Kentucky soldiers. He was a vigorous man until 


114 


BARBARA : 


then. But his wound and the great stress of the cam- 
paign were all too much for him, and he has never 
been his old self since.” 

‘‘And yet for all that, you, his son, as you say, are 
trying to follow in his footsteps. Well, for a com- 
mencement you are doing remarkably well. You are 
wounded, but not a prisoner. It all seems a coinci- 
dent, though, that the father and son should so closely 
follow in the fortunes of war. ’ ’ 

‘‘Yes, and if 1 am not mistaken, I have heard father 
say his rescuer was a young Sandusky brave whose 
home was here somewhere in the valley, and that in 
releasing him and in aiding him to escape, the Indian 
himself must have been captured or killed, as he was 
never again seen in the army.” 

‘‘You say he was rescued by a young Sandusky 
Indian?” asked Beaumont. And then, without wait- 
ing for a reply, added: “The Sanduskies, some of 
them at least, have their homes here on the banks of 
the river. Let me see: that was in 1794. Now, I wonder 
if that had anything to do with Lone Arrow and his 
pitiful condition in that year? That was so lone aeo 
though. ’ ’ 

‘‘Yes, it was about sixteen years ago this fall. I 
was quite young then, only about five years old. But 
1 remember father being away and of his coming home 
in a very feeble condition, and of his telling of his 
experiences. And now, you see, here I am, his son, 
going down the same valley, or rather started to. All 
I fear now is that my admiration for the romantic 
scenery of this valley has carried me too far away 
and has caused me all this trouble.” Then he said in 


BARBARA : 


115 


a sort of ruminative way, “I might have stood and 
fought them to a finish, perhaps ought. But there 
were so many of them, and from the start it was a 
running fight with all of us. And then, when they 
cut me off from the others, why, it left me to fight 
the best I might, and to get away from them if 1 
could.’' 

“You did some pretty effective work in that run- 
ning fight, young man,’’ said Beaumont, with much 
expression. “And if they had captured you, they 
would no doubt have made it most interesting to them- 
selves in working out their vengeance. Lone Arrow, one 
of the friendly Indians, who has been up along the banks 
of the river, either last night or this morning, said 
three dead Indians lay between here and Ball’s Ford, 
put hors de combat, after your companion was cap- 
tured.’’ 

“And is my companion safe, do you know? The 
one they captured up the stream, did he reach the 
other troopers?’’ 

“It is pretty certain that he is safe and with the 
other soldiers, for his escape in the night meant that 
practically. Yes, I think it is safe to say he reached 
them before they left the valley.’’ 

“Who is this Lone Arrow of whom you speak so 
frequently? Is he an Indian, and one of those with 
whom we had the skirmish?’’ asked the Lieutenant 
with much interest. 

“He is an Indian, but not of the ones you had the 
trouble with. His tribe live on the banks of the river, 
about a mile below here, and are a part of what are 
known as the neutral nations, always at peace with all 


116 


BARBARA: 


if let alone. They hunt, fish and trap, gather their 
crops of corn, rice and berries, and deal fairly with 
all who come to them in peace. It was by his shrewd- 
ness, I think, that your pursuers were put off the right 
track — by making them believe you had gone on down 
the river. After their departure he returned, and 
finding you safe at our home he went away again, 
promising to keep track of them. He is a most pecul- 
iar fellow; the most so of any I have known in a life- 
time with them. He loves excitement — adventure, 
and while his tribe remains peacefully at home, he is 
ambitious for war and the wild chase, or anything else 
that will bring him into danger. He will be gone for 
weeks, and none will know where, until possibly, as 
was the case years ago, he comes dragging himself 
back to the valley more dead than alive. Once, when 
he had been captured by another tribe over in the 
Maumee valley (and that was back in 1794, I believe), 
they had made him run the gauntlet for something he 
had done, and had otherwise pounded him up. After 
escaping from them he crawled back toward his 
home, and was found one morning near the mission 
house with very little life left in his body. He was 
brought to our home, was doctored back to his normal 
condition, and since then he has been more the friend 
of the white man than of the red. When you are able 
to go on your journey to your command, I count on 
his giving you much valuable assistance.'’ 

“I should fear to trust myself in his hands all 
alone, unless well prepared for emergencies, especially 
since my late experience with his red brothers. Still, 
according to your way of thinking, and as he is 


BARBARA: 


117 


described, he certainly is a most peculiar Indian. Do 
you really think he is to be trusted?” 

“Trusted!” exclaimed Beaumont. “Why, I would 
trust him with my own existence when he gave me his 
word to do a thing. He has lived here always, has at 
different times done us many acts of kindness, as we 
have him, and in a case like this, involving our welfare 
and that of Barbara, why, he would give his life if it 
would serve us. It is true that Indians are treacher- 
ous, and it is also true, as you will find, that some of 
them never forget a kindness nor a wrong. And Lone 
Arrow is one who never forgets those who befriend 
him. At least he never has, so far as I have known. 
Do not worry over that. Recover as fast as you can. 
The wife and Barbara will do what is possible to help 
you along, and to make the forced stay as pleasant as 
they can. When the time finally comes that you must 
leave us, then we will provide a guide for you who 
will deliver you safe to the army.” 

“I do not know^ as I have said before, how to 
thank you for the kind hospitality offered, and for the 
great consideration for my welfare which you seem to 
show, and I shall have to leave it all to the future for 
payment. With such friends my stay can only prove 
to be one of supreme pleasure — to me at least,” said 
Beveridge. 

“Well, none of us will let that come into the 
account just now. All there is for you to do is to be 
as comfortable as you can under the circumstances.” 

Beaumont, rising from the chair, took the hand of 
the young Lieutenant, promising to see him again soon, 
and then went from the room, leaving the curtain to 


118 


BARBARA: 


the window up. Beveridge was now able to more 
clearly note his surroundings, and was struck with 
the neatness of every object in the room. The home 
might be rude, the walls were of rough-hewn logs, 
but certainly it looked homelike and comfortable. 
The room in which he lay was large and airy. It had 
in one corner a high -posted bedstead of a most peculiar 
pattern, all surrounded with a fancy colored curtain. 
The chairs were of a rather unique style, the pictures 
on the wall of strange designs, while about the floor 
were laid fur skins of different animals, which, 
together with rugs, almost completely enveloped the 
puncheons and made the tread as soft as the most 
costly and elaborate carpet. The coverings on the 
bed and those on the cot were not only neat, but he 
observed that they showed the work of clever hands in 
their construction. 

The Lieutenant was musing thus when the mother 
and Barbara appeared with refreshments, of which 
when they were set before him he partook with a 
great relish. His light meal in the morning and his 
heavy sleep had produced an appetite somewhat 
appalling for an invalid. And while he ate he gave 
them a brief outline of his now worse than useless 
expedition, telling, as he had told the father, of the 
fight and of his separation from his companions. He 
talked to them of his home, where he said an aged 
father, a doting mother and a loving sister awaited 
his return when his services were at an end. 

Our home— -the home of the Beveridges— —is one 
of the oldest in that part of Kentucky. It was built, 

I have been told, by my great-grandfather, early in 


BARBARA: 


119 


the colonial days, and has since descended from 
father to son. It is one of those old-fashioned planta- 
tion homes, half surrounded in the rear by the negro 
quarters, built more for real comfort than from any 
particular architectural beauty or design. It is near 
Lexington, and yet far enough away to give us the 
pleasures of the town and the country both in one.” 

During the recital of his story, which both were 
eager to hear, Barbara and the mother sat in attentive 
silence. The description of his home life, of all is 
beautiful surroundings, of the. slaves who worked the 
great plantation in raising tobacco, all of which he 
portrayed to them in a pleasing manner, was to 
Barbara a description of a new and most wonderful 
world — such as she had imagined from the stories 
in the books she had read. It brought to her a 
memory of a long ago— of a forgotten past, she knew 
not what. And when he spoke in loving terms of his 
mother and sister, and showed a reverence for his 
father, her eyes became moistened with tears she tried 
hard to conceal. 

And all the while Lieutenant Beveridge was study- 
ing her face, his eyes scarcely leaving her for an 
instant. He was comparing her, in his mind, with 
the father and mother, and nowhere could he find a 
trace of resemblance in her features. The mother 
talked but little ; in fact, the Lieutenant did the most 
of it on this occasion, and found very attentive lis- 
teners. To do him a justice, he talked interestingly, 
to them at least, as naturally they were desirous of 
knowing all about him. 

In Barbara he found some new expression — let us 


120 


BARBARA: 


cafl it charm — of sentiment at every turn of the con- 
versation. He noted the longing luster of her eyes, a 
seeming far-away look, as he spoke of his people. 
She set him to speculating, and once or twice he lost 
himself in other thoughts than those they were talking 
about. She was so different from those around her 
that frequently during the afternoon and evening he 
caught himself on the point of asking a question that 
would have been the height of impropriety. But he 
managed each time to check his words, and neither 
then, nor afterward, did he in the least manner 
encroach upon a subject he longed to discuss — to 
solve. 

And why should he? He was supremely happy, 
and entirely unconscious of his pain or his condition 
when Barbara was present and talked — telling of her 
wild and happy, but lonely, life; of her outdoor enjoy- 
ments, her love for the stream and its beautiful banks. 
Her description of it all made it appear more like a 
romance than a real life experience to the Lieutenant. 
When she talked all the finer outlines of her feaures 
were brought out and into perfect play, while her 
varying moods from grave to gay made smiles follow 
despondent looks like the shimmer of the moon on the 
bosom of peaceful waters. 

She told him of how she had grown up there in the 
beautiful valley, of her education obtained through 
the assistance of Father Jacquese, and of how little she 
knew and longed to know of the outside world, knew 
of it only as she had learned it from books. She spoke 
of her one girl friend, Jannice; of the earnest devo- 
tion of the Indian, Lone Arrow, for her and her 


BARBARA: 


121 


friends, and of her own friendship for him and his 
people. She talked of her great admiration for the 
beautiful Sandusky river, of her rambles along its 
picturesque shores; of her favorite nook at the Blue 
Banks, and of how she came to be there on that par- 
ticular afternoon and evening. And all the while 
Beveridge was drinking in every word she uttered, 
growing more fond of her each moment. Around both 
was being woven an invisible web of unbidden affec- 
tion, a reaching out of one soul after another; an 
affinity; we cannot say what. It was fast mastering 
them both, and they knew it not; yet all the while felt 
a subtle power overcoming them at every turn and 
change of the seconds. 

“Just suppose now that you had not been there,” 
said Beveridge, when she had related to him her trip 
to the Blue Banks on that afternoon. “Then, I wonder, 
what would have happened?” 

“Oh, well, in such an event as that you would most 
likely have found more courage and strength, and 
would have saved yourself. Most probably you would 
have clung- to the bushes for safety. But it was not 
to be that way; ‘it was to happen just as it did,’ as 
father Beaumont is in the habit of saying.” 

“Now, I don’t know about my saving myself at 
that time, for although a fairly good swimmer under 
ordinary circumstances, it is very doubtful if I could 
have kept myself afloat just then. No, if you had not 
been there, my sweet little deliverer, as you were, 
then the dear old mother would have waited in vain 
for the return of her only wayward son.” 

“Please do not say that. Do not even think of 


122 


BARBARA: 


anything- that would bring sorrow to her heart,” said 
Barbara, with some warmth of feeling. 

“No, God bless her! She will not have that to 
bother her soul just yet. But she has you to thank 
for its being as it is. But for you — your strange pres- 
ence there just then — it would all have been so differ- 
ent through all the years to come in that dear old 
Kentucky home. To you, and to you alone, do I owe 
my life, and to you forever must she and I be 
indebted. ” 

Barbara really liked to hear him say what he did, 
not from any personal pride in the matter, but because 
it was pleasing to hear him say it, and to hear him 
talk. And it was for that reason possibly more than 
any other that she persisted in arguing the point. 

“If I had not been there, then some one else would 
or might have been, and you would not have drowned. 
Why, the Indians^might have captured you, they prob- 
ably would have, and then you might have escaped, 
as did your companion.” 

“No,” continued Beveridge (and he too appeared 
anxious to prolong the conversation). ‘‘No, there 
would have been no escape, for had I been in a condi- 
tion to elude them, it would not now be necessary for 
me to be lying here, helpless as I am almost, and 
arguing the question with you.” 

‘‘I had not thought of it in that way,” Barbara 
replied. ‘‘As it is, you will be able for a while yet to 
help fight the battles of the country, and then make 
the hearts of your people glad with your return home. ’ ‘ 

‘‘And, besides, do let me enjoy the pleasure of 
thinking how much I am indebted to you,” continued 


BARBARA: 


123 


Beveridge. “For I assure you it does bring a tinge 
of joy to think of you performing the rescue. So 
much so, that while I do not care just at present to 
repeat the process, still if I were sure of coming out 
all right, as in this instance, and was certain the 
pleasures would be as great, as enjoyable, as they have 
been so far, why, I believe if the circumstances 
required it, I should not hesitate to make the venture 
again. For what is life at best, save for the joy to be 
derived from it?” 

“That may all be true,” said Barbara, “but it 
hardly seems as if the pleasures you speak of could be 
worth the pain, to say nothing about the risks.” 

“In my own case, so far as it has extended, there 
is no hesitation in saying it would be worth all the 
risks. To have met you is in itself pleasure enough 
to repay me for all the pain endured or the risks 
required. Had I never met you, and yet could realize 
the enjoyment it would give to know you, then, 
indeed, would I go back to the moment when first I 
met the Indians, and again go through the same 
adventures, just to have the pleasure of sitting as we 
do now, and conversing with you with the same free- 
dom.” 

“That was very prettily said, mon cher^ but the test 
cannot now be made, and there can be no reason why 
it ever should be,” replied Barbara, while the blushes 
came and went over her happy face. 

“Well, I may be able to prove it all to you in some 
other way some day, possibly.” 

“If you ever undertake it, if you attempt any such 
feat as that again, please try and not be so quiet right 


124 


BARBARA: 


after, for candidly, I do not like any one who cannot 
or will not be social on first acquaintance. It isn’t the 
way to treat a lady, to say the least.” 

‘‘When the next time comes I promise you to be 
more social, now the ice is broken,” continued Bever- 
idge. “Before I was a little abashed at the sudden 
and unexpected introduction and the damp surround- 
ings. If I had only known I was going to meet you, 
why, it might have all been in a different manner.” 

The Lieutenant said this with a dry sort of a smile, 
as if he intended it as a great joke; if he did, he was 
matched when Barbara replied: 

“You are forgiven under the circumstances, the 
more especially as you were compelled to seek my 
company. It was either me or the Indians. And I 
have no doubt you hesitated before the choice was 
made. But please do not try it again, not just now at 
least. You better return to the home first, and let the 
mother know you are alive and well.” 

This led Beveridge to again speak of his home and 
its people, and that seemed what Barbara liked best. 
She loved especially to have him talk of his “little 
sister,” as he called her, for it enabled her to draw a 
comparison between the sister and herself. 

“Is she beautiful — your ‘little sister,’ as you call 
her?” she asked. “I would dearly love to see her.” 

“Why, I think she is, of course, for the reason that . 
she is my sister. She is the life of our home. So 
kind and gentle, sincere and true, as I believe you 
are. Not quite so tall as you. Not with the same 
beautiful hair; hers is a very dark brown, not quite 
as black as mine, but of a most luxuriant growth, 


BARBARA : 


125 


much as yours. And with blue eyes. The Beveridges 
all have blue eyes, save mother. Hers are of that 
deep hazel color, so hard to define. Eyes that belong 
to loving natures like her, to those who know so well 
how to make home and all its surroundings so per- 
fectly happy — so cheerful. Do you know, if mother 
were young, like you, for instance, I am sure I should 
fall in love with her. And, until 1 met you — until I 
looked into your hazel eyes, I always declared that 
mother’s eyes were the most beautiful I had ever 
beheld! But yours — beneath the bushes, as I saw 
them, and here in the home — they are her equals. 
Somehow hazel eyes have always held a fascination 
over me. And, besides, brown eyes tell so very much 
that others cannot. I know yours and mother’s do. 
And as I lay here and look into yours ” 

“For the mother’s sake I will accept the compli- 
ment,’’ broke in Barbara, not waiting for him to 
finish. “I cannot but love her and the ‘little sister,’ 
both, for your description of them makes them appear 
beautiful.’’ 

“Well,’’ continued Beveridge, when he found he 
was shut off on the question of eyes, “they are worthy 
all the praise 1 can give them. Millie — may I say it — 
is not possessed of that same frank, open nature as 
yourself. She is timid, reserved, and a great home- 
body; asks only to sit and read and dream. Yet I 
often persuade her out, and almost compel her to take 
long and furious rides over the plantation on horse- 
back. She loves the home the best, while you, I take 
it, prefer the great open, beautiful world. Now, do 
you know, I believe you would enjoy to go galloping 


126 


BARBARA : 


off in the early morning on horseback for a two hours’ 
ride before breakfast. In our climate it is most exhil- 
arating and a pleasure that cannot be defined nor 
explained save by experience." 

‘‘I have never had such a pleasure, but in books 
have read of the enjoyment, and it has seemed to me 
it would be a most exquisite pastime. I can imagine 
from the reading of those same books that your Ken- 
tucky climate must be grand for outdoor life, and I 
have often in thought lifted myself far up above all 
things about me, and could then look down into coun- 
tries far away. And then I could see, it seemed to 
me, a glimpse of a home, all surrounded by flowers, 
trees and water — a picture that comes to me unbidden 
in my day-dreams — of a people whom, it does appear, 
I should know. Yet why, or where, is all a mystery. " 

"Well, sister Millette is much such a dreamer and 
a lover of books. But she wants to do all her dream- 
ing at home in the house. " 

"She has grown up in the home, while I have come 
up outdoors, in the open air, and have always consid- 
ered it a part of my very being. She has grown up 
surrounded by happy, cheerful friends and environ- 
ments, in a beautiful home, with a fond mother. Yes, 
she is the noble woman — full of home life and happi- 
ness. She is my very opposite. 1 know I should 
adore her." 

And the mother all this time? Oh, she had lin- 
gered long enough to see that the Lieutenant had all 
his appetite required, and then, when Barbara and he 
began falling into their talk of the incidents attending 
his escape from the Indians, and after she had listened 


BARBARA: 


127 


to his description of his home life and his people, had 
quietly gathered up the fragments of what Beveridge 
had left on the tray, and had taken her departure 
from the room. 

In all her talk, beyond the statements that her life 
had been spent here along the banks of the Sandusky 
river, and the allusion to the home influences on his 
sister’s life, and her imaginings of some other home 
than the one she occupied and appeared to enjoy, not 
an intimation was ever made to her childhood. Nor 
was there any reason why any should be made. If 
she had been asked, there is not a doubt but she would 
have been frank enough to have told him all she knew. 
It was true Beveridge was puzzled at times when he 
compared her with the Beaumonts, in their features, 
dispositions and ways. Why, he could not have told 
if he had been asked. Such thoughts will come some- 
times, to some of us at least, and no reason can ever 
be assigned for them, save as mind, unbidden, acts 
upon mind. She was different from them, he would 
say; but what of that? They loved, and indulged her 
in all things, and in many instances deferred to her 
wishes, and without any particular effort on her part 
or theirs. Yet, he would think to himself, there was 
something about her that he could not understand. 
He enjoyed listening to her talk, for then she charmed 
him with that accent of half Creole intonation in her 
voice, so musical and undefinable. It and her French 
education, added to her pure Anglo-Saxon blood, 
formed a foundation for a most interesting conversa- 
tionalist. 

And thus, in this sort of pleasure, each enjoying 


128 


BARBARA : 


the talks of the other for the knowledge of a new life 
it gave, the days gradually drifted by, the Lieutenant 
convalescing much more rapidly than he or the people 
about him had hoped for. His wound was nothing 
after a few days, and, but for his crippled limb, he 
would have been able to go about with ease. As it was, 
he was compelled to be confined to the house and porch 
when he would have much preferred going out, and up 
and down the banks of the river. 

Day by day they were being drawn closer and closer 
together. Each acknowledged it secretly to themselves, 
but strove to keep it hidden for a time. Meantime both 
were happy — full of that great enjoyment of life that in 
after years will come up and appear so heaven-like in 
its pleasures and far-away sentiment — that happiness 
that causes a sort of misery when, if even for a mo- 
ment, the other is away. Never for an instant did 
Beveridge stop to think that his new found happiness 
would not go on forever. He longed to recover, and did, 
quite rapidly ; and it was not until the second week of 
his stay that he began to comprehend that his recovery 
meant a separation from this new enjoyment of life. 
Then he actually began to dread the day when he should 
be able to walk about without leaning on the back of a 
chair, or using the great clumsy stick Beaumont pro- 
nounced as a cane. This going away was the only thing 
that seemed to disturb his mind, and he gave just as 
little thought to it as was possible. 


CHAPTER SEVEN. 


“For ages, on the silent forests here, 

Sunbeams did fall before the red man came 
To dwell beneath them; in their shade the deer 
Fed, and feared not the arrow’s deadly aim.” 

— Bryant. 


Long and happy were the hours Barbara and the 
Lieutenant spent together on the broad, old-fashioned 
porch when he was first able to leave the room, the 
first trip having been made with one hand on Bar- 
bara’s shoulder and the other on the back of a chair. 
The porch was homely and rude, but it gave them a 
glorious place. to sit all through the mornings and 
afternoons of the September days, looking off toward 
the Blue Banks, so strangely romantic to him now, as 
well as to her. 

He had met Jannice, and liked her very much. 
She was a frequent visitor to the home, especially 
after the Lieutenant was able to get around, and was 
often his companion in the forenoons, and whiled away 
many an hour with him when Barbara would be busy 
with household duties. She was of that attractive 

129 


9 


130 


BARBARA: 


brunette cast and lovable nature, a petite coquette, 
that made her most enjoyable on any and all occa- 
sions. Besides she tried her best to be entertaining 
with Beveridge; first, because she wished to do so, 
and because it was natural to her ; and, second, with a 
view, if possible, of inducing Barbara to become jeal- 
ous of her attention to “the gallant Lieutenant,” a 
title she had seen fit to apply to him soon after their 
first meeting, and especially when she was referring 
to him in Barbara’s presence. Beveridge, from the 
start, thoroughly understood the nature of the charm- 
ing little creature, and indulged her in all her desires 
for what he termed a flirtation. He admired her for 
her loving disposition, and because she was the 
devout friend of Barbara. And he considered that it 
was along this same line of appreciation that’ she so 
studiously endeavored to please and be attractive to 
him. Beyond this she had made no deeper impression 
on his mind; while for herself she probably never 
gave a thought about affection for him, beyond that 
of being entertaining, and because it was natural to 
her creole nature to be a coquette. 

He had met the Indian, Lone Arrow, of whom he 
had heard so many stories the first few days of his 
confinement to the bed, and Beveridge was compelled 
to admit that he was struck with his physical appear- 
ance, if nothing else. He was of a most remarkable 
figure— fairly tall, “straight as an arrow,” and thor- 
oughly well proportioned in every limb — just such 
an one as would be picked for a perfect athlete. He 
was at the time dressed in a suit of buckskin, pecul- 
iarly constructed, trimmed round about with a fringe 


BARBARA : 


131 


made of the same material. His jacket, or what 
answered for one, was marked all over with strange 
devices, dyed in various hues, while his head was free 
of any covering, save a mass of raven black hair, as 
straight and free from kinks as was his Indian form, 
and that hung in two great rolls across his shoulders, 
tied at the ends with narrow strips of some fancy 
colored skin. Save for the dark, copper hue of his 
face, and a deep, ugly looking scar across the left 
cheek, he might have been attractive; but they, if 
anything, gave him a somewhat repulsive look. He 
had come up to the Lieutenant, as he sat on the porch 
one afternoon, and unceremoniously said: “How!” 
in that peculiarly gutteral tone of the Indian lan- 
guage that none but a “child of the forest” can use, 
and then squatted down on the porch. 

“White man well agin? Walk some, soon? Then 
go to camp?” he said, as he settled himself down and 
looked at nothing. 

“Yes,” replied Beveridge. “I must get back 
pretty soon now. Is it far over into the Auglaize 
country?” 

“Ugh! Big, long way off ! Ta-h-o! Two moons; 
more. Be friends? Yes?” asked the Indian. And 
Beveridge, understanding, reached out his hand, say- 
ing: 

“Yes, good friends. You good Indian. Hear 
much praise of you, and I want to be friends with all 
such braves.” 

In the meantime he had taken a roll from his coat 
pocket from which he took several bright, shining 
trinkets. With them he put a piece of gold coin, and 


132 


BARBARA: 


handed them to the Indian, who, taking them with his 
peculiar grunt “Ugh!” again took the Lieutenant’s 
hand, and said: 

“Good friends! We go to Maumee country 
together when you are ready.” Then from out his 
pocket he brought a pipe, and filling and lighting it, 
offered it to Beveridge as a solemn compact of Indian 
friendship. After both had taken a whiff, the pipe 
was tucked away, and soon after the Indian arose 
from his seat and took his departure. 

The worthy priest had called to see the Lieutenant 
on several occasions before he was able to leave the 
room, and on the afternoon of the first day that he 
got out onto the porch he had called again. Then the 
two enjoyed a very pleasant conversation. Some- 
how Beveridge formed a liking for the man from the 
very start, as men frequently do for one another, and 
their talk as a consequence lacked that restraint which 
is so often common with new acquaintances. They 
were free from the start, and what they said was 
open hearted. In fact, when it was over and the 
Reverend gentleman was gone, the Lieutenant, in 
thinking about it, discovered that he had told the 
priest more about his home and its affairs, of his busi- 
ness, and of the estate, and family relations, than he 
had imparted to any of the rest of his new found 
friends, even including Barbara, for to her he had 
not mentioned business at all. He did not regret it, 
only wondered why he had been so communicative. 
He knew the calling of the man, respected his holy 
creed, and had full confidence in his integrity and true 
worth. With him, as with all of us, he could only have 


BARBARA: 


133 


a reverent regard for the men whose souls are filled 
with the small, sweet voice coming down from the 
time “when shepherds watched their flocks by 
night,” on the hills of old Judea, and in converse 
with them, somehow that soothing influence that 
charmed the watchers when the Star of Bethlehem 
gave forth its brilliant rays, penetrates and enters the 
soul, and opens the confidences of our very beings. 
Father Jacquese, plain in his outward appearance, with 
a noble, open face, accustomed to the rough life that 
was all about him, was like many more of his calling 
in those early days, “the advance guard of the Great 
Redeemer,” a humble servant, sent on before to pro- 
claim a new religion to the darkened mind of a savage 
race. He was the spiritual father of a people who 
sorely needed his guiding counsel. And his influences 
for good had not been altogether lost on those about 
him, be they creole, French, or Indian savage. 

And the priest in turn had no doubt been as free 
with the Lieutenant. He talked of the country, of the 
Indians and their peculiarities, and of the differences 
between those at war with the government and those 
at peace. He talked freely and feelingly of the Beau- 
monts, of their noble traits of character, and of the 
high regard in which they were held by the Indians 
all about them. He talked with much pride of the 
natural beauties of the great valley, and of its appar- 
ently inexhaustive resources. Told many stories of 
Lone Arrow, and of his strange Indian life, and for 
whom he had many words of praise. He conversed 
long and interestingly of the impending struggle 
between the white and red men, ending by saying it 


134 


BARBARA: 


was inevitable that the red must go down before the 
white. And before they were through, he had told the 
Lieutenant much that he could not have obtained else- 
where, and which he made notes of, and treasured up 
for future use. Through it all it was evident that both 
priest and soldier had a warm feeling for each other. 

The little settlement of three or four houses about 
the Beaumonts was made up of a number of Cana- 
dian-French, more loyal to their adopted country than 
to Great Britain, so that while they were all of them 
genial enough in their way, Beveridge found little or 
no time or inclination to mingle with any of them, 
outside the Beaumonts and the parents of Jannice. 
He became acquainted with Bernard, and but for the 
fact that he was always showing a desire to drag Bar- 
bara away by- himself, he would no doubt have liked 
him well enough. As it was, he cared little for his 
company, fearing always when he was around that he 
would rob him of her company for the time. Bernard 
had succeeded in doing this on one or two occasions, 
leaving the Lieutenant to be entertained by Jannice. 
And while she was a most charming young woman, 
and could talk by the hour on subjects she knew how 
to make interesting, still he felt that he was losing 
something that was more preferable. But all he could 
do was to “grin and bear it” manfully. 

He had so far recovered now that he had been able 
to take several walks about the enclosed yard, with 
the aid of a heavy cane, and had once ventured to the 
river bank with Barbara. It was on this occasion, 
when Barbara had pleasingly commented on his rapid 
recovery, almost two weeks after his arrival in 


BARBARA : 


135 


their midst, that he announced that he believed he 
was able “to return to his command — (a pause) — in 
a few days.” He noted the expression that came 
over her face before and after he had uttered the last 
words — a sort of drawn look as if something had hurt 
her. For, to be plain, she had lived on from day to 
day, as he had, with little or no thought of a time 
when a parting must come and he would go away. 
It was a short two weeks to her, reckoned as time, 
yet so full of a new joy that she had forgotten to 
measure the days as they sped by. She had enjoyed 
her life as never before. The coming of the stranger 
had changed all things. The times when Jannice and 
Bernard would spend the evenings together with them 
at her home gave her more of pleasure than they 
formerly did, because then, when all were together, 
the Lieutenant talked more of a world that was all so 
new to her, of life in Kentucky, of his daily duties, 
and of his people and those around them. And the 
evenings and the days were all so full of pleasures that 
she had never given a single thought to their ending 
so soon. And when he, for the first time, made a ref- 
erence to his departure, it cut into her heart like a 
keen-pointed knife before she was aware of it. 

“You must not think of leaving yet,” was her 
reply in a subdued tone, after she had made a sort of 
effort to speak. “Why, you cannot walk without a 
limp, and how could you travel through the woods on 
foot and so far? You will find it a long way over into 
the Maumee valley. Even now you can scarcely walk 
to the river and back with me, let alone going off on 
such a trip as that will be.” 


136 


BARBARA: 


“I have asked your father to secure a horse for me 
to make the journey on,” replied Beveridge. 

They had just reached the porch, having returned 
from a walk to the river, and he had certainly done 
considerable limping before they had reached the 
home. After a pause in the conversation, Beveridge 
asked : 

‘‘Will you be lonesome when I am gone? Will you 
miss me very much, Barbara?” 

When she looked up at him her face bore an 
expression he had never seen there before, and for an 
instant he regretted having put such an absurd ques- 
tion to her. When she answered her words had a deep, 
peculiar tone, and came from her as if by a great effort. 
It was evident she was doing all in her power to con- 
trol herself and hide her emotions. Then, however, 
the Lieutenant did not understand it correctly. 

‘‘Lieutenant Beveridge, my life has always been a 
lonely one, and it cannot help but be still more so 
when you have left us.” 

He hesitated himself before he attempted to make 
a reply, hoping she might say more. Then : 

Well, Barbara, I too shall be lonesome indeed. It 
will be long, yes, many long years before the memo- 
ries of these, to me, happy days spent here with you 
in this peaceful valley retreat shall begin to grow 
dim. And while my life lasts they will linger in my 
mind as a most gracious happiness. You and your 
people have done very much to make my stay a pleas- 
ure and a rapturous visit. And to tell you a truth, I 
regret that I am compelled to go and cannot remain 
longer to enjoy a life all so new to me. But a soldier’s 


BARBARA : 


137 


duties are imperative. They must be'obeyed and fol- 
lowed out on certain lines. Disagreeable as they may 
appear, there is no getting away from them.” 

“Nor would 1 have you. It must be a noble life to 
follow — to be a soldier, and if I had been a man it 
would have been the height of my ambition. Of 
course, we shall miss you very much. I am glad if 
we have made your stay with us agreeable. Your 
coming into our home opened up a new life for all of 
us— for me most assuredly. It gave us something 
new to think and talk about, and we all enjoyed the 
excitement it at first created. I know that even 
father Beaumont, reserved as he generally is in his 
disposition, has been glad to have you with us. It has 
been so with mother, and I have no hesitancy in say- 
ing I have found much enjoyment in your company. 
It was all so peculiarly new to me to be taking care of 
a sick man, and he a stranger.” 

The smile that wreathed her face made Beveridge 
feel that at times there was a pleasure in sickness 
even, and to regret he was so near a complete recov- 
ery. If then he should have pressed a desire he 
longed for, there is no doubt but that he would have 
struck a responsive chord of sympathy. Instead he 
continued the conversation in another vein. 

“But I have not been very sick, as my appetite 
will prove. And now to have to go back to the com- 
mon fare of a soldier is more than I even like to think 
about. ” 

“Poor fellow!” said Barbara, and she looked as if 
she meant it. But in what spirit, he could not tell. 
“If father Beaumont should not be able to procure a 


138 


BARBARA : 


horse for the journey, then what?” inquired Baroara, 
after a short pause. 

Oh, then I should have to walk, I suppose; that 
would be all there was left to do.” 

Now, Lieutenant Beveridge, you know you could 
not do that, and why say it? At least I know it, 
when you are hardly able to walk to the river and 
back — with me!” 

He looked up very suddenly and caught the smile 
that accompanied the last remark, and it caused his 
heart to throb anew. 

‘‘I wish it had been possible for me to have accom- 
panied you to the river and back every day since I 
have been here. It is one of the lost enjoyments of 
my stay, and something that will leave greater 
regrets in my mind than it possibly can in yours. 
But let us hope that when we meet again I may be 
able to make up for all such lost pleasures.” 

Well, we shall not let regrets for what could not 
be helped come up now to destroy the pleasures of the 
past or future. Your not being able to walk has of 
itself been responsible for all the enjoyments we have 
had. I look at it as an unavoidable afflicted satisfac- 
tion.” 

Yes, it has produced its full meed of happiness, 
that is certain,” said Beveridge. ‘‘While it has 
deprived me of one pleasure, it has given others in 
return. It has enabled me to have your almost con- 
stant companionship. And that has been very much 
to me. It might not have been so if I could have 
walked. It is one of those cases where pain brings its 
pleasures, and I have been content to sit here on the 


BARBARA : 


139 


porch and in the home, and live in an atmosphere of 
pure satisfaction and contentment, listening to your 
tales of life and peace here in the valley, so far 
removed from the outside world. ’ ’ 

“1 think you know we have all enjoyed having you 
with us. Lieutenant, and I fear that when you are gone 
mother and myself will scarce know how to put in our 
time for a few days. It has been so very unusual to us 
to have a stranger about that when you do leave it 
will seem quite lonesome for a time, until we get used 
to the old ways again.” 

“I shall regret being the cause of your loneliness,” 
said Beveridge. ‘‘And still, do you know it is a pleas- 
ant thought to feel that you are missed? It is better 
to have it so than to be so soon forgotten. It is the 
true friendships of life that fill our souls with pleasant 
recollections of the past. But for our memories, what 
would life be worth? But for our friendships, what 
use of thoughts?” 

‘‘And still the mind lives on without them — at 
times. Here, in my valley home, all the friends I 
have ever known have been my almost daily, hourly 
companions, but my thoughts went out to those I 
knew not. Now, when you are gone, 1 can feel what 
a new experience it will be to let my thoughts go out 
beyond their present confines and wonder where you 
are and what you are doing, to think of your mother 
and the ‘little sister,’ and feel and know there really 
are such people, and that they do live — not in my 
thoughts alone, but in reality, and that they may be 
thinking of me. That will all be a new experience 
to me.” 


140 


BARBARA : 


“Do you think you will^ be the only one whose 
thoughts will go wandering away, up and down the 
whole creation, like that? It seems now that with each 
hour I will be with you, in thought. I cannot but 
look back at my whole stay here as a most pleasant 
summer dream. All has been so quiet. All has been 
so pleasant in your home. Kentucky has well been 
called the ‘Dark and Bloody Grounds.’ Contentions 
innumerable have taken place within its borders, 
until its very soil seems restless with the blood of the 
slain braves and innocent women and children. The 
tragedies of the past ages, enacted within the confines 
of that state, have apparently given to all who have 
been born and reared there a restlessness of spirit and 
soul. So that when here in your peaceful home, 
one of us finds such a haven of retreat and peaceful 
quiet such an enjoyable, companionable woman as 
you — why, you can scarcely comprehend all it 
means. ’’ 

“Then is Kentucky such a terrible place to live? 
From your descriptions of your home, it appeared to 
my mind the perfection of contented happiness!” 

And so it is now. For years, how many none 
can tell, it was the battle ground of all the tribes of 
all the great northwest. To-day there are fewer of 
the red men there than here. But one cannot help 
living in^ reveries of all that has transpired there. 
Much as it possibly is here to you ; only there I have 
never found that same pleasurable companionship that 
I have here. May I put it more plain: have never 
before found a Barbara Beaumont.” 

That, no doubt, has much to do with our lives 


BARBARA: 


141 


anywhere! she replied, without raising her gaze from 
the floor. 

“And do you know that is why I shall feel and 
experience a grief at leaving when the time comes 
to do so? Until my captivity — with you — I had thought 
the life of a soldier would be the height of my ambi- 
tions. I look upon it now as only an occupation 
through which, of course, much of pleasant experi- 
ences have been attained, and through which now all 
of it must be brought to a happy close. It would be 
wrong to wish to destroy the peace and quiet of the 
valley here, but just now I cannot help wishing the 
operations of the army were nearer than they are at 
present,” 

“We are only glad they are so far away, and hope 
they may remain so. Not to keep you away. Lieuten- 
ant. You can, may be able, to come again without 
bringing the army and dread war with you. At 
least we shall all hope so. Surely you will come 
again; when you do, please leave the army be- 
hind.” 

“I shan try, both to come again and to leave the 
war behind. Do you know I shall come, too, not so 
much for the peacefulness of the valley, as for the one 
person I now know it contains? I shall come because 
you are here. Because with you, in your company, I 
find a pleasure I never knew before. Come, because 
while talking to you, I feel that all the real enjoy- 
ments of life are being fulfilled and realized.” 

As he spoke he reached out and took her hand in 
his, and as she stood near him, and as each looked into 
the other’s eyes, there was an evident commingling 


142 


BARBARA: 


i 


of soul with soul — to each an ecstacy of peaceful joy 
which neither had ever before experienced or realized. 
It was that unseen yet visibly felt bond of love, such 
as binds heart to heart, and that in spite of all obsta- 
cles and distance, overcomes all and finally triumphs in 
peaceful holiness. 

Just then the mother appeared, and the conversa- 
tion took on a more general character, which, perhaps 
not so personal and pleasurable to the Lieutenant, was 
still most agreeable, for the reason that it held Bar- 
bara within the charmed circle, and he could listen to 
her voice and know she was near. When at last 
Beaumont came up, and in an aside tone said to Bev- 
eridge that he was making the necessary arrangements 
for a horse, and Barbara arose and went into the 
house, only then did the Lieutenant feel that the con- 
necting link had for the time been broken. Whatever 
else was said about the horse or the contemplated jour- 
ney, Barbara did not hear, nor did she care to. It 
was a subject she had no wish to indulge in. And 
when the evening meal was served, if it had not been 
for the father, it would have passed almost in silence. 
But he, in his peculiar French vein, began relating 
some of the incidents that had transpired at the trad- 
ing post, and soon all were in a happy mood, for the 
time forgetting the subject uppermost in the minds of 
the two young people. Then Beveridge told of some 
of the characteristics of negro life in Kentucky, and 
after that the gloom was dispelled for the balance of 
the evening. 

No occasion after that was let go by when the Lieu- 
tenant did not manage in one way or another that 


BARBARA : 


143 


Barbara and himself should be together. But try as 
he would, it seemed destined that one thing or another 
would arise to thwart his desires. When they were 
alone and he would proceed to so arrange the conver- 
sation that it should run in a channel he had marked 
out, some way it would either go astray by some occur- 
ring incident or by the interruption of Jannice’s pres- 
ence, or that of some one else. And the day would 
come to a close and he was no farther on the way to a 
finish of his resolution than in the morning. This had 
gone on until in his desperation he was almost pre- 
pared to let nothing interfere and to bring matters to 
a crisis, no matter who might interrupt or be present 
— no matter if the time be opportune or not. 

A few days after the conversation on the porch, 
Lone Arrow came to the home, and after a long talk 
between Beveridge, Beaumont and himself, it was 
decided that on a certain night when the moon would 
be full, they would start on their trip across the coun- 
try for the Maumee valley, or wherever the advance 
of Harrison’s army might be at that time. From 
some of the Indians it had been learned that a portion 
of his forces were approaching the confluence of the 
Auglaize and Maumee rivers, a long two nights’ and a 
day’s journey away, from the lower rapids of the San- 
dusky. They concluded to take advantage of night 
travel for some reason best known to the Indian, and 
because it would give them the cover of night for the 
last of the journey when they would not only be ap- 
proaching the outposts of the army, but as well the 
camps of the Indians. A horse would be in readiness 
for the Lieutenant, who while yet too lame to walk so 


144 


BARBARA : 


i 

great a distance, felt that he was sufficiently recovered 
to be at his post with his company. 

Barbara kept living in the hope that the departure 
would be delayed still longer, yet giving no sign far- 
ther than to intimate the impossibility of making the 
trip while the Lieutenant was yet so lame. In her 
heart she regretted his leave-taking more than Bever- 
idge, but her self control was no doubt better. She 
tried to keep up a brave appearance, and that was 
mistaken by the Lieutenant for an indifference, and he 
of course imagined that she was assuming an air to 
keep him from going too far with the declarations of 
his affections for her. With this opinion he gave him- 
self and her more unpleasant moments than were nec- 
essary, and if anything caused Barbara to greatly 
misunderstand him on several occasions. 

When this summons came from Lone Arrow, and 
the day was set when they would take their leave, 
Beveridge became determined, possibly desperate, in 
his deliberations that Barbara and himself should 
spend as much of the intervening time by themselves 
as it was practicable for him to ask for. It was now 
at the height of the beautiful Indian summer weather, 
so proverbial and enjoyable in the Sandusky valley 
region, so that roaming up and down the banks of the 
stream or rowing on the waters was full of fascina- 
tion and a time ripe for love making. On this one 
occasion, the first day he had been able to carry out 
his resolution without appearing rude either to Jan- 
nice or Bernard, or in some other way, they went 
down the stream in the birch bark canoe, until they 
came to one of the numerous glades which mark the 


BARBARA : 


145 


banks of the river at frequent intervals, and there 
they spent hours in gathering the fall wild flowers so 
profuse in that region. But first one thing and then 
another transpired, each time catching him at- a most' 
inopportune time and preventing his saying what was 
hanging heavily on his mind. And it appeared most 
plainly that he was getting no encouragement from 
Barbara in the way of making occasions that might 
prove appropriate, until it seemed plainly evident that 
she either “didn't want to, “or else had no thought 
of any such intentions on his part. 

At last they returned up stream, stopped at the 
Blue Banks, and he made his first visit to their top 
since that eventful day. While there, in her enthusi- 
asm, Barbara kept him busy listening to her descrip- 
tion of his rescue, and in his telling of his rush for the 
banks, of where he dropped his side arms, and of his 
leap over. The wonder of the affair, the query as to 
what became of his belt, sword and pistols, the whole 
exciting scene, came up again so vividly to his mind 
that for the time he forgot the one other absorbing 
desire of his heart and mind. They descended the 
hills and sat in the first golden glow of the closing 
day at the foot of the cliffs, the canoe pushed up into 
the bushes, as it had been on that evening now 
almost two weeks ago, and when he was not busily 
engaged in reflections on the rapidly transpiring 
events of that afternoon, Barbara kept him in 
laughter with her description of his descent. And all 
the time, in spite of his apparent mirth, he felt a 
heavy sadness settling about his heart, a sort of 
despondent, disappointed feeling. Barbara, in her 
10 


146 


BARBARA : 


efforts to cheer him up and keep him out of this 
spirit, was doing just the thing to plunge him still 
deeper in, as it was preventing him from expressing 
the great desire of his heart. While she was trying 
to lead along in a mirthful mood, she was impressing 
him still more and more with the thought that it was 
all for the purpose of keeping him from broaching a 
subject that really, so far as she was concerned, had 
never probably been given a thought. 

She knew she cherished for him a feeling of friend- 
ship she had never felt for any one else. She enjoyed 
his society; his manner of entertaining her was new; 
while his stories concerning his people and of Ken- 
tucky fascinated her beyond measure. She regretted 
having him leave; could ever have been contented 
with his companionship. He was the first man who 
had ever taken the privilege to kiss her hand, or to 
even say so much to her in an affectionate way. She 
liked him — yes, she more than did that ; but she was 
scarcely aware of it. When he was away, then she 
would understand her heart better. 

They had sat in the canoe for several moments in 
a quiet, dreamy mood, each thinking along the same 
line of thought, but in different ways, and when Bev- 
eridge had again braced himself for another sally, as 
their eyes met once more, Barbara said: 

“My! It is time we were returning home! See! 
It is already growing dark, and father Beaumont will 
be wondering what is keeping us so late.’’ 

And without another word, she gave the paddle a 
stroke in the water and sent the frail craft out toward 
the middle of the stream. With two in a birch bark 


BARBARA : 


147 


canoe, and on a stream of water of indefinite depth, 
Beveridge felt that any attempt at love-making might 
at any instant upset the boat and spill them both out 
in the water. And then, they were at the mouth of 
the creek before he was hardly aware of it, where 
Beaumont met them, as full of talk as he ever had 
been in his life. So that occasion was lost forever. 

In the evening Jannice and her brother Bernard 
came over to the Beaumont home, and spent the hours 
until bedtime in pleasant conversation and in a game 
of cards, known among them as “gra-boosche. ” 
After that Bernard suggested a walk down to the river 
bank ; but the Lieutenant knowing full well the rela- 
tive positions the four would assume, said he was too 
lame to undertake it. He ventured to offer this slight 
objection more from a look he received from Barbara 
than from any disposition to be sulky; though, to tell 
the truth, he did feel just a little bit that way, from 
having been balked at every turn all through the day. 
So that when the suggestion had been made, he said; 

“I hardly think I better walk anymore to-night. 

I shall have a long ride before me ere I reach my des- 
tination, and I must begin the journey to-morrow 
night. Still, if you, Barbara and Jannice desire it, 
then I shall go with pleasure.” 

After a look at Barbara, Jannice came to the rescue 
by saying: “I really do not care to go. It is more 
pleasant to sit here, where we can all talk together. 

I think it much more enjoyable here on the porch. 
What do you say, Barbara?” 

“Oh, let’s sit here and talk. Lieutenant Bever- 
idge, tell us something about your home in Kentucky, 


148 


BARBARA : 


and about the people you call slaves on your father’s 
plantation.” 

And talk they did; and although it was late when 
Bernard and Jannice departed for their home, Bever- 
idge did manage, before they retired for the night, to 
get a few words with Barbara. As they came back to 
the porch from the gate, where they left their depart- 
ing guests, he took her hand, and as they reached the 
porch, he said to her; 

‘‘To-morrow at this time I shall be well on the* way 
toward the Maumee, with none but Lone Arrow for 
company. I can easily imagine now how lonely the 
ride will be, and how I shall wish to be back here in 
the valley once more, and with you. But there never 
was a joy without a sorrow to accompany it. I have 
heard my old colored mammy say so often, and I 
guess she was right about it.” 

‘‘We shall certainly miss you. Lieutenant Bever- 
idge. I think more than you will us. The strange- 
ness of the ride will bring many new incidents, such 
as will attract your mind, and then, when it is over, 
you will be with the army again, where startling events 
are everyday occurrences. All that will help to fill in 
and keep your thoughts busy. New scenes will be 
coming up continually, and I can easily see how it 
may be possible for you to soon forget all about us 
here in the valley. While we — well, we shall be com- 
pelled to go on with our humble lives, in the same old 
way as we have done all our days. Yes,” she con- 
tinued, as a sigh escaped her lips unawares (not, how- 
ever, unheeded by the young soldier). ‘‘Yes, I 
believe we shall miss you the more.” 


BARBARA; 


149 


“Barbara,” said the Lieutenant, and his voice was 
filled with a tremulous emotion; “Barbara, would you 
leave this home and go with me to the army— -with me 
to my home in Kentucky?” 

She withdrew her hand with an impulsive motion, 
as if scared or excited, and holding it up as a sort of 
defense, replied: 

“Do not tempt me. Lieutenant. Do not! This 
home and its surroundings are all dear to me. I love 
my people — love the beautiful valley and its peaceful 
stream. It is my world. It is all I have. All I 
know of. I could not leave it and all its memories!” 

“Its peace may all be destroyed. The army now 
in the other valley may be here almost any day. 
Hostile Indians may lay waste all about you, and 
then — — ” 

He never finished the sentence; for again she 
raised her hand as if to ward off or push aside the evil 
he spoke of. 

“Until then,” she replied, “let us live in the peace 
we now have, and have for so long enjoyed. If those 
evil times come, may the Lord protect us all, and send 
you back again!” 

He feared he had offended her in some way, and 
did not then follow up the intention he had in view, 
and which, if it had been pressed, might have brought 
him a joy he had been seeking for several days. As 
it was, he somehow lost his vantage ground, and 
taking her hand in his again, was content to press it 
to his lips as she said “Good-night,” and went into 
the house for the evening. The Lieutenant sat there 
where she had left him for a long time, pondering 


< 


150 BARBARA : 

over the situation and his failure to bring about a 
more satisfactory result, and then he, too, retired, but 
with a determination in his mind that he would be 
more successful the next time, or know the reason 
why. 


CHAPTER EIGHT. 


“Good-bye, sweetheart!” 

“Until we meet again! That is the meaning 
Of the familiar words that men repeat 
At parting on the street. 

Ah! yes! till then — 

Good-bye!” 

— Longfellow, 


They were long, weary hours before Lieutenant 
Beveridge dropped off to sleep that night but when 
the first gray rays of the morning came he was up 
fully prepared to get out of that, his last day with the 
Beaumonts, all the pleasure and enjoyment it was pos- 
sible for him to secure. He had decided that some 
way, some how, come what might, he would bring 
things to a final crisis^between himself and Barbara. 
Just how, he did not exactly know but in some way, 
he felt confident and determined, an opportunity 
should be made to occur. He would know his fate 
before another sun went down on the valley, let it be 
whatever it might. He would tell her of his love and 
ask her to be his wife. She must understand him ; 
and then, if it gave offence, or if he were not favored 

151 


152 


BARBARA : 


by her, he would go back to the army and try to for- 
get it all by dipping deep into every chance that war 
could offer. How all this was to be brought about, 
was the only thing he was not sure of ; but come it 
must. On that point he was quite clear. That he 
had settled before he had gone to sleep the night 
before, and he now only awaited coming events. 

Soon after the morning meal was over, and when 
Barbara came to him on the porch, looking as fresh 
and pure as the undisturbed dew on the grass and 
flowers, and indicated that she was free from house- 
hold duties, he viewed her with the seeming satisfac- 
tion of a hungry soul, as he said, in a tone that 
bespoke the tension of his mind : 

“Barbara, this will be my last day here in the 
valley, for some time at least, and possibly forever. 
And if we can, let us enjoy it along the river or on 
the stream ‘in a little light canoe, scarce large enough 
for two.' “ 

And she responded in a tone as sweet as the warble 
of the morning birds, while smiles played about her 
cheeks in a manner to tempt a man of a more stolid 
nature than Beveridge. 

“My time is all yours. Lieutenant. We shall get a 
basket and my hat, and whatever of mysteries the 
beautiful Sandusky has to reveal it must give up 
to-day.” 

Going down to the boat, the first discovery made 
was that it needed patching. That accomplished (and 
it had proven a pleasurable task, as it brought Bar- 
bara’s hands in frequent contact with those of the 
Lieutenant), they were about to embark when Bar- 


BARBARA ; 


153 


bara found the paddle was broken. Then that had to 
be replaced with one from the house. And the Lieuten- 
ant was living in mortal fear that some one (Jannice 
just as likely as not) would come along and upset all 
his finely laid plans. By the time a new paddle 
had been secured the forenoon was well gone, and 
Beveridge on the point of giving up in despair. But 
at last they started off up stream, and in a short time 
they came to the low, marshy piece of ground around 
which he had ridden the evening the Indians were 
following him so closely. It was filled with a fine 
growth of cat-tails now in their full beauty, and at 
Barbara’s suggestion they went ashore. The soil was 
’fairly dry and they wandered on foot through the 
dense growth, gathering the most handsome speci- 
mens, using much caution to keep from stepping in 
soft and soggy ground. They chatted as they went 
along, on every subject save the one the Lieutenant 
was always waiting to bring to the front. After they 
had secured all the boat would safely hold, and after 
loading them into the canoe, and the two were seated, 
the little craft was permitted to float down stream with 
the current, being guided only by the oar in the hands 
of Beveridge, while Barbara occupied a seat in the 
center among the cat-tails. 

At last the boat was turned toward the shore once 
more, and when near the vine covered tree, a landing 
was made. The canoe was pulled up out of the water, 
the cat- tails unloaded, and Barbara began an arrange- 
ment of the best of the trophie sthey had gathered. 
Waiting a few moments, Beveridge finally took her by 
the hand, saying: 


154 


BARBARA : 


“Come, Barbara, let them go for a while. Let us 
go and sit in the shade beneath the vine, yonder. I 
have something to tell you. ’ ’ 

She arose, and the two were soon seated. Now 
when the opportunity was come, and there was not 
another subject on earth to engage the thoughts of the 
Lieutenant, he could not, to save himself, think of a 
single word to say that in any way would seem appro- 
priate. Both were silent for the moment, Beveridge 
endeavoring to broach a subject that was consuming 
him with its desire, and Barbara with the thought that 
this was the last of her boat rides with the Lieutenant. 
It was likely to grow monotonous, when at last in a 
most commonplace way (not at all as he had intended) 
Beveridge remarked : 

“Barbara, our first meeting was so strange, so out 
of the ordinary, that I have been wondering for a 
moment how the next one will come about; I have been 
thinking, too, of all it has revealed to us. To me it 
has opened up a new life. In me it has created a new 
hope, a new desire, and an expectancy for the future 
never before experienced. It has given me a longing 
wish, the earnest desire, that when next we meet it 
may be under brighter and happier circumstances. 
And yet, it could not bring to me more of happiness 
than I have known the past two weeks while in your 
presence. Only that our next meeting may in some 
way terminate differently. All this hope, all this long- 
ing and all this happiness have implanted in my heart 
a yearning to come again — some day, soon — and then 
feel and know that I have come into your life, as you 
have into mine, to remain forever, — a determination. 


BARBARA : 


155 


dear Barbara, to ask that some day you will become 
my wife.” 

As he spoke he took her hand in his, and he felt its 
tremor as he had that day when she had stood beside 
the couch whereon he lay, and for a time he awaited 
an answer to his appeal. None came, for he had not 
asked a question calling for one. Instead, Barbara 
sat with downcast look, like one in a trance. It had 
come to her, this announcement, as another and a 
newer revelation of life, and she was trying to evolve 
it in her mind, and to say the right thing — the word 
she ought. 

“Barbara, can you not give me one little word of 
promise on which to rest a hope? Surely, Barbara, 
you cannot be angry with me for my assumption. 
You certainly cannot wonder at my request! How 
could it be otherwise ? How keep from loving 
you?” 

It was evident her whole being was in a whirlwind 
of commotion. She could not speak then — not until 
she had mastered her emotion. Her disengaged hand 
was pressed heavily upon her breast, as if to still her 
heart, and with a slight effort she attempted to free 
the other; but he would not let go his hold, feeling if 
he did she might again escape him. At last, as if by a 
mighty effort, as if through a mastery of her very soul, 
she managed to say: 

“Lieutenant Beveridge, you have asked me a 
question I was not expecting to hear — for a promise — 
a word, I am not now prepared to give. And before 
I can answer you — before I can give the promise you 
seek — I feel, for your sake, and for my own, that you 


156 


BARBARA : 


must know more of me than now. You must be made 
aware — ” 

“Barbara, dear, I know enough of you now. I do 
not care to know more. I know I love you madly! 
passionately! devotedly! And that is enough for me 
to know. I ask your promise to be my wife — “ 

Her hand was up, and it checked his fervent declara- 
tions. That motion seemed a command, and he 
obeyed. 

“Let me speak — do — while I may. I am what you 
see me, what you have found me, a child of nature, 
reared here in the valley, with no knowledge of the 
world, save as it has come to me through books. For 
several weeks you have lived here, within my presence 
and influence, and possibly have formed an attachment 
that when you are away will be forgotten. If, in the 
time to come — days, weeks, months, or years— we meet 
again (and I say to you in all sincerity, I hope we 
may), if then you feel free to ask me for a promise, I 
may give it. To do so now would not be honest or 
fair to you nor myself. To-morrow you will be far 
away. Your soldier duties will absorb all your atten- 
tion; they will occupy your mind, and I may be — yes, 
will be forgotten.” 

Several times Beveridge had attempted to inter- 
rupt her and to deny her statements, but she would 
only raise her hand as a request that he would permit 
her to finish, and when she had, he replied: 

No, Barbara! No! I never can forget you! 
Never shall I forsake your memory! Never, while 
wave follows wave, can I lose the love I have for you. 
Do not think so meanly of me as that would imply. I 


BARBARA : 


157 


love you, and ever shall. To have known you as you 
are — ’ ’ 

Again her hand went up — it was her only defense 
— and again it checked him, and she continued: 

“I shall ever remember the light, the sunshine, and 
the joy you have brought into my quiet life. It has 
been as pleasant to me as to you. Some day, when 
you are away from here ; when you have reached that 
beautiful home in Kentucky, the one you have told me 
of so often; when you sit beside that dear mother, 
and listen to that ‘little sister,' both of whom you have 
caused me to love ; when you listen to the counsel and 
words of warning from the father, noble in his ideas, 
as you have made him appear, all of whom await your 
return; then, if your thoughts shall yet turn to me; 
then, if you can and do ask of me a promise — I shall 
give it. Until then — wait — as 1 shall. When we 
part to-night let it be as friends, with a simple ‘good- 
bye, ’ as friends say it when they hope, yes, expect, 
and in their hearts know, by a hope that will never 
die, that they shall meet on the morrow, not so far 
away. ’ ’ 

And that seemed to be all of a promise he might 
get, or that he could obtain from her. , Yet he per- 
sisted in his pleadings: 

“But, Barbara, you are as dear to me as my life!” 
and she began to arise, as if to go to the home. “Can 
you not give me some token, some simple thing, to 
remind me of your assured friendship? Something 
that will impel me to return, and create in you a desire 
for my coming?” 

“As if that were possible! Or, as if it were neces- 


158 


BARBARA : 


sary!” she replied. But he would not let her go yet, 
and taking her hand again, pleaded once more: 

“See, Barbara! May I not give you this? It is 
the loving gift of a fond mother, given when last I 
left her. It is all I have, and I treasure it as I do her 
memory. It is the ring she has worn for years, the 
one my father first gave her, and that she put on my 
finger the day I left her. “ And as he spoke he slipped 
it on her finger, continuing: 

“Will you not take it, Barbara, and wear it until 
my return? For return I shall, if I live. If not, then 
keep it as a token of a love I gave you, and which I 
had hoped some day to receive from you. ’ ' 

Then, as if his whole soul were involved in an ap- 
peal for a life, he said, in the depths of a passionate 
outburst : 

“Barbara, I cannot leave you thuS; Give me — oh, 
give me something — anything I may hold and feel as 
yours — something stronger on which to found a hope 
for the future ! Surely, Barbara, you cannot doubt 
my love for you altogether!" 

Then, as she gazed in his eyes, turned to her so full 
of passion, and, she doubted not, of love, she withdrew 
her hand from his, and, looking at the circlet of gold 
he had slipped on her finger, she took from her neck 
the string of pearls, with the medallion attached. 
Putting them into the hollow of his hand, holding 
still to the ends, she looked him steadily and full in 
the face, her cheeks aglow with all the emotions of 
her passionate nature, looked as if she would read his 
soul’s very inmost thoughts, and said: 

‘ Lieutenant Beveridge” (and the tone was slow. 


BARBARA : 


159 . 


measured and impressive), “you offer me this token, 
and ask one in return. This is all I have of earthly 
possessions or of value. It is more to me than I can 
tell you now. In the future days you may know. 
But I intrust it to you, in the place of the ring — with 
this promise from you: That when you have reached 
your home, and the words spoken to-day have become 
irksome, it will be sent back to me. How, I cannot tell 
you. But that you will— must promise to do. Nor 
shall time nor distance prevent, even unto the risking 
of life itself. When it comes, then shall I return to 
you this ring. Nor must you be more careless of the 
safety of my token than I shall be o| the ring. It is my 
only jewel. It is all I possess that can in any way 
tell me of a home that to me now is only like a long 
ago half-forgotten dream. Guard it even with your 
life. Give me this promise, as you say you love me, 
and I will take your token, and give you mine.” 

“Barbara, dear, if my life will at any time make 
sure and keep safe this jewel, and bring it back to 
you, it will be secure unto you until next we meet. 

I shall wear it always, as you have, next my heart. 
If my life should go out in battle, or if I die in peace, 
before we meet again, in either case I shall summon 
all the remaining energies of my soul to obtain a 
promise from those about me — from some one — to see 
to its return to you, with my blessing. So help me 
God and keep me steadfast unto my promise to you. 
But, Barbara, dear, I shall bring it myself. ’ ' 

“Yes, you must fetch it back to me yourself. I 
know you will.” Saying which, she let go the beads 
and dropped them and the medal in his hand. 


160 


BARBARA: 


And he, in the excessive exuberance of his great 
and passionate love for her, put his arm about her 
waist as she dropped the beads, and when she looked 
up into his face with those deep brown eyes, that he 
now knew were full of a holy love and affection, he 
drew her to his breast with a strong embrace, and 
pressed full upon her lips a kiss, the thrill of which 
lingered with her for weeks to follow. It was a kiss, 
the first she had ever received, and given in return, 
from any man in all her memory. It was her maiden 
love-kiss, given to the man she was now sure she 
loved; and the fragrance of it dwelt with Beveridge 
for many, many long moons, and went with him that 
night into the depths of the forest, bearing with it the 
perfume of an angel’s breath. 

“God bless you, Barbara, and keep you safe until 
my return,” was all he could say. It was the seal of 
their love, and words seemed almost profane at the 
moment, while yet he pressed her to his bosom. 

Then, in a seeming halo of unspeakable bliss, they 
wended their way toward the home, both so happy 
they had forgotten to secure either the boat or the tro- 
phies of their day’s ramble. At the porch he left her 
for the moment, and the only words he uttered as she 
started for the door, were : 

“My dear Barbara!” 

And to which she replied: “My Lieutenant, au 
revoir!'" 

Soon after the evening meal was announced, and 
before it was well over Lone Arrow appeared, as he 
had promised, leading a sturdy French-Canadian 
horse, “all saddled and bridled,” and ready for along, 


BARBARA ; 


161 


and in no sense, whatever, pleasant journey. For an 
hour every one was talking at the same time, the 
Indian doing less than anyone else, but fairly talka- 
tive for him. Barbara talked to keep her thoughts 
busy ; Beveridge to keep his feelings within bounds, 
and Beaumont and his wife because they loved to on 
occasions like this; and to be sure and say all they 
wished to the Lieutenant before he left them. While 


in the midst of it all, preparations were being made for 
his comfort, as far as possible. The Lieutenant was 
again for the last time thanking Beaumont and his 
wife for their kindness and generous hospitality, while 
Barbara and the Indian were busy fastening a package 
on the front of the saddle, alongside a pair of old- 
fashioned flint-lock pistols, in the holsters. When for 
some reason she spoke his name to the Indian, Bever- 
idge turned around, and as he looked at her his soul 
almost forsook him, and all his desire for a soldier’s 
life left him, and he would have given over all his 
safety if he could have taken her in his arms and pro- 
claimed his love to her again. Barbara came and 
stood beside him, her face all wreathed in a smile so 
sweet and full of love, and if possible with an admoni- 
tion as to their parting; and when she extended her 
hand, on which glittered his token of love, and in the 
sweetness of her Creole voice said, “Good-bye, Lieu- 
tenant; and bon voyage!"' he only took her hand 
(instead of taking her in his arms as his inclination 
told him to, for it was with a mighty effort that he 
restrained himself from doing it), and bowing low, he 
pressed her Angers to his lips almost hard enough to 
bring the blood, and with a kiss said: 


11 


162 


BARBARA : 


‘ ‘ Good-bye, and may God bless you until my return. 

Then stepping to the horse, he flung himself into 
the saddle with the air and grace of one long used to 
the custom, turned the animal’s head to the west, and 
followed after Lone Arrow, who had already set out 
on a long, lonesome and dreary tramp. 

When they reached the high ground to the west of 
the valley, and came out where the cluster of houses 
below were in plain sight, Beveridge stopped, and 
turning about, saw Barbara still on the porch, where 
he had sat so long and often ; saw her waving him 
another adieu. He took off his hat, waved it above 
his head — breathed a fervent prayer to God for her 
welfare and safety. And although he would gladly 
have given half his life, and renounced all his former 
hopes for fame and a name, if he could have gone 
back, he reined about again and struck off into the 
wilderness after the Indian guide. Followed on when 
there seemed nothing to go by save the indistinct 
trail, and that visible to the Indian only. Followed 
on when it felt to him he was going away forever from 
the only hope, the only happiness, he had ever known 
in all his life. Followed until the gloom of the 
approaching night came on like a heavy pall to 
enshroud his dreary thoughts and make his life, if 
possible, still more despondent. 

As it grew darker the instincts of Lone Arrow 
were brought into more perfect practice, and at last 
he was obliged to take the horse by the bit, and thus 
they traveled on for several hours without a word 
from either — in silence through a tangled wood where 
possibly no white man had yet trod — on, into the 


BARBARA: 


163 


depths of a forest so dense that but for the guiding 
hand of the Indian the horse itself could scarce have 
found a way ; traveled on with nothing but the stars and 
the dim light of the moon to guide even the Indian. 

And back in the valley, in the Beaumont home, 
the evening was one of the most lonesome they had 
ever endured. The absence of the Lieutenant made 
the old home seem deserted. Barbara tried to appear 
cheerful; the father would start some of his droll 
stories, but the mirth produced was dry and lifeless. 
The only topic on which all could find any spirit to 
talk was Beveridge, and his long trip through the wil- 
derness. After that had been gone over several times 
they felt that the subject had been thoroughly 
exhausted, and then all retired for the night. 

But if the father or mother had taken a glimpse 
in the room where Barbara slept, they would have 
found that her vigils extended until long into the early 
hours of the morning of the coming day, in her mind 
following Beveridge on his weary way, and sending up 
to the throne of her Redeemer prayers for his safety. 
Yet, when she came into their presence in the morn- 
ing, she was to all appearances as fresh and cheerful 
as was her former custom. But she did not go out 
that day on her accustomed ramble, remaining at 
home and doing many odd things she had neglected 
the past two weeks. 

Even the priest, when he dropped in the next day, 
noted the difference in the spirits of the people, and 
suggested that it .would be an excellent idea to have 
another soldier come along and be rescued from 
drowning. 


CHAPTER NINE. 


“Deep in the forest buried, 

With no guiding star in sight.” 

— Frank, 


The departure of Lieutenant Beveridge and Lone 
Arrow, from the Sandusky valley, had been so timed 
as to give them the benefit of the full moon on their 
journey. The schedule was no doubt all right, but the 
humidity of the atmosphere interfered quite materially 
the first night out. For some hours after they had 
penetrated the wilderness they had the full glow of 
the orb of night; and although dim, it was a great aid 
to their footsteps. But shortly after midnight dark - 
clouds came up from the southwest; soon a drizzling 
rain set in, and the two travelers were compelled to 
seek the best shelter possible. Long before the first 
tints of the morning came they were soaked to the 
skin, and their first night’s progress was considerably 
lessened. 

However, they were off on the trail as soon as it 
was light enough to see, when the rain had ceased, 
and began looking for a suitable place for building a 

164 


BARBARA : 


165 


fire and drying themselves, without attracting the 
attention of any prowling bands of Indians that might 
be in that vicinity. Ere long they reached a creek, 
and following down its banks, after a while they came 
to a great overhanging rock. Here they halted and 
beneath built a rousing fire, by which they made an 
effort to dry their clothes. The water in the creek 
was quite roily from the rain of the night, so they pro- 
ceeded still farther before stopping to take their break- 
fast, something the Lieutenant had not given a 
thought to yet, as he had been kept busy with other 
reflections. When they finally reached a clear stream, 
near a spring, they halted and prepared their morn- 
ing meal. 

All night long little or no conversation had been 
indulged in between the two. The Lieutenant had 
attempted on various occasions through the early 
hours of their journey to draw Lone Arrow out, and 
get him to talk, but the effort had not been a success. 
He had asked him how he knew his way; about the 
people in the valley behind them; about the weather 
(a subject anyone but an Indian is prepared to say 
something about), but to all of it his guide had 
answered, either with short replies, gutteral grunts, 
or with supreme silence. At one time the Lieutenant 
thought he heard him say something like “Damn 
talk,” and so after that he gave himself up to his own 
thoughts, and tried to content his mind with reveries 
of the past two weeks. 

If once, then a dozen times, through the night he 
put his hand in his breast coat pocket to convince 
himself that he yet possessed the charm that Barbara 


166 


BARBARA : 


had intrusted to his keeping. It was safe, and he 
would again take up the thread of thoughts that car- 
ried him through the strange incidents of his stay at 
her home. The main feature of the whole, however, 
was Barbara herself. He tried, and tried again, to 
come to some definite conclusion concerning the mys- 
tery which he now felt assured, in some way, sur- 
rounded her life. So far as his love for her was con- 
cerned, it made no difference whatever. It was her 
own words that mystified him most. She had been on 
the point of telling him the afternoon before, and in 
his .mad, passionate love, he would not listen to it. 
She had said to him he must know more of her life, 
and he had waived it aside. Then, as he pondered 
these things, and her words, he would again put his 
hand in his pocket to make sure the medal was there. 
Then again he would ask himself what connection, 
what bearing, the thing could possibly have on her 
young life. She had said, when giving it to him: 

“It is my only jewel. It is all I possess that tells 
me of a home that to me is now but a happy dream.” 

Prophetic words, he thought. He had repeated 
them through the night until they had burned them- 
selves into his memory like living coals of fire. “A 
home that to her is now but a happy dream,” he 
would repeat to himself. Then, surely, the valley 
had not always been her home. Perhaps she was not 
a Beaumont. If she were, then, where had they come 
from? No, that would not do; for had she not said 
she had grown up in the valley? And so, the more 
he thought, the more mysterious the whole affair 
became ; and the harder it was to get rid of. 


BARBARA : 


167 


He had found it quite difficult to retain his seat on 
the saddle at times during the night, as he was often 
caught by overhanging branches and almost raked off 
the horse, and especially if Lone Arrow for a moment 
let go his hold on the bridle. And these interruptions 
were all that came to break in upon his thoughts. In 
the morning, when they halted at the spring, and 
after they had satisfied their hunger with some biscuit 
and cold venison, all of which Beveridge was sure had 
been prepared by Barbara’s own hands, and for that 
reason made the meal the more enjoyable, he again 
fell into a train of reveries about her, of the valley 
home, and all its surroundings. 

The guide had finished, and was looking about 
through the timber, to get his bearings, possibly, and 
to ascertain if others than themselves had been that 
way recently. Beveridge took the string of beads 
from his pocket, and was soon completely lost in admir- 
ing them. It was the first good look he had taken of 
them ; and so occupied was he with his own thoughts 
that he became utterly oblivious to all his surround- 
ings, meditating over the possession of a treasure, to 
him more valuable than his own life. Again and 
again he tried in vain to decipher the letters on the 
one side. They were, to the best of his knowledge, 
Celtic characters ; but what was their meaning? The 
towered castle on the other side with its embattled 
walls and drawbridges! Did it all point to some old 
feudal days, when kings held sway in their own con- 
stituted domains? And then the date! That was so 
far away — “1623. ” 

He had just put the string of pearls about his 


168 


BARBARA: 


neck ; carried the medal to his lips and kissed it, for 
he felt it yet retained the touch of Barbara’s hands, 
and then looking at it, said to himself, yet aloud : 

“Barbara, with my life will I guard and keep safe 
your token of love!’’ 

He was then about to put it in his pocket again, 
next his heart, when his hand was seized at the wrist, 
and a gruff voice he did not recognize, demanded : 

“How you get that? It belongs to White Flame! 
How you have it now? Is white man damn thief?’’ 

His wrist was held as in a vice of iron, yet slowly 
against the apparent will of the Indian, Beveridge 
raised himself up, looking Lone Arrow steadily in the 
eyes, and saw that his face was livid with an inward 
rage. For an instant he knew not what was best to 
do or say; to shake the savage off, or to humor his 
curiosity and satisfy his interest. For a few seconds 
they stood face to face ; then Beveridge made up his 
mind, and replied: 

“Yes, it is Barbara’s. It belongs to her yet. She 
gave it to me, to keep until I return again to the 
valley. ’’ 

“Ugh! White Flame foolish! ’Spose you not come 
back! You send it to her?’’ the Indian asked. 

“Yes; that is what I promised her; and to guard it 
with my life! So, you let go!’’ 

Slowly, almost reluctantly, the hold on the Lieu- 
tenant’s wrist began to loosen. The two stood gazing 
into each other’s eyes, as if trying to read the mind, 
the intent, of the other—the soldier in doubt of the 
Indian, and the Indian in turn trying to satisfy him- 
self of the truth of the statement made. At last Lone 


BARBARA : 


169 


Arrow turned, and as he kicked a harmless snake out 
of his way, he said : 

“White man no thief — he no liar! He speak the 
truth! White Flame is his own squaw!” 

To all outward appearances that was the last 
thought the Indian ever gave the subject; but it was 
not so with Beveridge. He speculated for a longtime 
on the guide’s queer action, and decided to thereafter 
keep the emblem out of sight. Not only that: it 
made him suspicious of him, in spite of all the good 
words the people in the valley had said of him. 
After resting for an hour or so longer, they again 
took up their weary march. As they did, Beveridge 
asked : 

“How far is it yet to the river?” 

“One day, one night; maybe more; can’t tell yet. 
Ta-h-o!” he replied, as he waved his hand off in front 
of him. 

That was not very definite, thought the Lieutenant, 
but it was as much so as any other information he had 
asked for. After they had traveled for some time, 
Beveridge got down off the horse and tried to walk ; 
but the long, steady strides of his guide were too much 
for him, and he soon mounted again. It kept the 
animal itself at a brisk walk to keep up with the 
Indian, and he did not appear to be exerting himself, 
either. 

The guide was constantly growing more cautious 
as the day wore on, and by noon was continually stop- 
ping every few miles and scrutinizing their surround- 
ings. Several times he checked the horse near some 
clump of bushes, and went on ahead by himselL 


170 


BARBARA: 


Then, after long pauses, he would motion the Lieu- 
tenant to come on. 

“Indians or white men?” asked Beveridge, after 
one of these pauses, as he came up with the guide. 

“Some Indians. Not many. Gone by yesterday, 
maybe,” replied the Indian, pointing to the north. 

Frequently they would change the direction of their 
course of> travel; possibly follow along the course of a 
stream, wading in the shallow water; and then, after 
a time, again take up the old direction as before. 
They had done this quite often, until now, late in the 
afternoon, the guide went far on ahead, got down on 
the ground, examined the leaves and shrubs; then put 
his ear down and listened. In that position he waved 
his hand back to the Lieutenant, who was already 
down off the horse, and had it sheltered behind some 
bushes, out of sight. Slowly Beveridge crawled to 
where the Indian was, and who by this time had raised 
himself up alongside a tree, a big oak, with low hang- 
ing boughs, and had practically become a part of the 
tree. Then, lifting himself up close beside the guide, 
the Lieutenant asked in a low voice : 

“What is it? Indians, do you think?” 

“See! Way off! Down, close to the ground!” 

So faint was this said that instinctively Beveridge 
looked at the Indian, and then followed his gaze, look- 
ing as he was told close to the ground; and finally, 
away off, low down, as if crawling, or beyond a ridge, 
he made out moving figures. How Lone Arrow had 
ever been able to see them was a mystery, and he 
wondered if it was possible he had heard them when 
he listened so intently with his ear to the ground. 


BARBARA : 


171 


Not a move did either make for full half an hour; 
then the Indian let go of himself, breathed one of his 
“ughs, ” and the Lieutenant felt that for the present 
the coast was probably clear in front of them. But 
they did not go on. Lone Arrow sat down and let the 
next half hour pass by in supreme indifference. 
Then, when Beveridge was growing impatient, he 
arose and said : 

“Come; we go now, again.” 

Not far away they came to a clear stream of water, 
flowing from a spring, where they halted, and after 
watering the horse and then putting it out of sight, 
where it could graze, they sat down and finished the 
refreshments they had brought with them from the 
valley. They would have no more now until they 
reached some portion of the army. Just when that 
might be, Beveridge himself did not know, and the 
Indian was too close-mouthed to say — even if he knew. 

Soon after that it began to grow dark, and they 
proceeded more slowly than ever. Then the moon 
came up clear and bright, and helped in a great meas- 
ure to light them on their way. But the Indian evi- 
dently did not like it, for he was nervous, and every 
little while would say, “Damn moon! Too much 
light!” 

Lone Arrow was now tramping alongside the 
horse, holding it by the bridle, and their progress was 
quite slow. They were trudging along, now, late in 
the night, with everything as silent as the rays of the 
moon that strayed through the branches above them, 
when of a sudden the Indian brought the animal to a 
short, sharp standstill, and in a second Beveridge was 


172 


BARBARA : 


off and on the ground beside him, for he felt there 
was some one near them. Like the forest trees all 
about, they stood like statues — in perfect silence, 
supreme. Five, ten, fifteen minutes slipped away. 
Not a sound could Beveridge hear, save the twitter of 
some restless mother bird as she covered her brood in 



TRIP THROUGH THE FOREST. 


the branches above. Not a move did they maice, until 
of a sudden the Indian grabbed the horse by the nos- 
trils, and in the same instant dealt it a kick in the 
ribs, causing it to smother a whinny it had prepared 
to let out, possibly as a signal to one of its kind some- 
where in the forest. 


BARBARA : 


173 


An hour or more went by ; the Indian so intense 
Beveridge could hear his breath come and go, while he 
himself was drawn in every nerve ; both alert to any 
sound that might be heard. Finally, Lone Arrow said 
to him, “Heap lot Indians. Some white men, I guess. 
Warriors, all of them.” 

“Which way were they going? Could you tell 
that?” asked Beveridge. He, himself, had not heard 
a single sound, intently as he had listened for it ; and 
he was inclined to be somewhat skeptical. Yet nearly 
500 warriors had just passed them, going north. Nor 
was his faith much strengthened when soon after 
Lone Arrow said, in rather a confidential and reassur- 
ing tone: 

“Come; we go to camp, now. Leave the pony ’till 
morning; then we come and get him. Too many 
Indians to use horse. We go on foot. Can you 
walk?” 

“Can I walk?” thought the Lieutenant. And into 
camp! After such a journey! Through two weary 
nights and a whole day! Without sleep! Tired and 
sore with crossing streams, dodging under bushes, 
and beneath low hanging boughs! Tormented by 
mosquitoes almost beyond endurance ! With two cold 
lunches, washed down with a small bottle of Beau- 
mont’s claret! Feeding on berries! Wet to the skin 
the first night, with his clothes still in a soggy condi- 
tion! Could he walk into camp! He doubted if he 
could ; but for the sake of ending such a trip, and once 
more being with white men, who would answer ques- 
tions— yes, he was ready to try it, or almost anything, 
although when he had before attempted it he found 


174 


BARBARA : 


himself so stiff and lame he was compelled to give it 
up. But, to get to camp ! 

“Oh, yes! I can walk to camp all right enough!” 
he replied; and suiting the action to the words, he dis- 
mounted, hobbled the animal, removed the pistols, 
and the saddle from its back, placed the latter at the 
foot of a tree, and with a wonderful effort to make his 
limbs obey, he drew himself together and followed 
after the Indian, who said: 

“Camp of soldiers not far away now.” 

Beveridge was somewhat incredulous, yet hoping 
the camp was no farther away than Lone Arrow 
seemed to think it was. For the next few miles they 
traveled most of the time along the bed of a creek; 
and about daybreak, to the astonishment of the Lieu- 
tenant, they came suddenly on one of the outposts of 
Colonel Jennings’ portion of Harrison’s army, where 
he was in camp on the banks of the Auglaize river, 
some fifteen miles in advance of the main force, and 
not far up the river from Fort Defiance, at the junction 
of the Maumee and Auglaize. 

So completely taken back was Beveridge that for 
the moment he forgot to answer the challenge of the 
sentinel. It was hard for him to understand how an 
Indian, who cold neither read nor write, was able, in 
the darkness of the forest, to so accurately discern his 
whereabouts, and all about him, with apparently noth- 
ing to guide him. And it was not until the challenge 
of the soldier picket was repeated that he thought to 
reply to it: 

“We are friends without the countersign.” 

Then, at the order, he and the Indian advanced. 


BARBARA : 


175 


one at a time, with their hands above their heads. 
Beveridge gave his own name, and that of the com- 
mand he belonged to, and explained why he was in 
the company of an Indian, and out so early in the 
morning. All sorts of questions were put to him and 
cheerfully answered; and at last both were taken into 
camp, the Lieutenant being greeted as one from the 
dead, after his long absence. They were just in time 
to partake of a warm breakfast, the coffee acting as a 
great stimulant to their exhausted conditions after so 
long a fast and so tedious a journey. Beveridge was 
the worse used up of the two, but with a few days* 
rest he was ready for service, and entered once again 
into his duties with his old-time vigor. During the 
afternoon of their first day in camp the pony they had 
left in the woods came wandering in, and was soon a 
part of the army itself, and served the Indian on his 
return to the Sandusky valley a few days later. 

Before he left, and before Beveridge had reported 
for duty with his own command, he had intrusted the 
Indian with a long and fervent letter, addressed to 
Barbara. It was given to the Indian with many mis- 
ghungs on the part of the Lieutenant, as to its ever 
being delivered, but as it was the only means at hand 
he was compelled to take the chances, and trust to 
Barbara reminding the Indian of his having it. He 
had promised her he would send her a note by Lone 
Arrow, and the thought that she would ask for it was 
the only hope he had that it would reach its proper 
destination. He cautioned the Indian to be sure and 
deliver it, but his stoicism was so dense that he gave 
no satisfaction, whatever, that he understood what 


176 


BARBARA : 


was meant. Before they parted for good, Beveridge 
slipped several gold pieces into his hand, and hoped 
they might prove a gentle reminder if all else failed. 

He tried in the contents of the letter to give Barbara 
a graphic account of their trip through the wilderness, 
and of their final safe arrival at the camp of Colonel 
Jennings. It was, however, taken up almost wholly 
with a renewal of his declarations of love for her; of 
his earnest desire to again visit her; and finally, of his 
hope to so completely win her love that when next 
they met she would consent to become his wife, and 
go with him to his home in Kentucky. It was in all 
particulars a strictly confidential love letter, honest, 
open and frank ; the first he had ever written to any 
woman, save his mother or sister. And it was just 
such a sensible, straightforward one as Barbara would 
rejoice at receiving. 

On the day of his departure. Lone Arrow and 
Beveridge bade each other good-bye, the Indian start- 
ing on his return journey well provided for, and the 
Lieutenant leaving the camp to join his own com- 
mand, to take up his active duties as a soldier. His 
first act on arriving at his destination was to report to 
his commander. General Harrison, whom he ap- 
proached with much humiliation of spirit; for he felt, 
somehow, that his mission had proven a failure. The 
general met him, took him by the hand in a much 
more confidential manner than he had expected, and 
sitting down listened to all Beveridge had to say. 
After giving him a complete detail of his capture, his 
being wounded and of his almost miraculous escape, 
he entered into a full account of his interviews with 


BARBARA : 


177 


the various tribes of Indians. He told him of the 
friendly relations of the Indians and French settlers in 
the Sandusky valley,^ and related much that the priest 
had told him in their interviews. And then he added : 

I feel, General, that in all respects my journey 
has been a complete failure, so far as the mission on 
which I was sent is concerned. If I had it to do over 
again, I would probably know better how to do some 
things, and above all not get myself into such a trap. ” 
“Then your mission would most assuredly bave 
proven a failure, Lieutenant. Had you turned about 
and come back tobamp when the balance of the troop- 
ers did, you would have returned with some informa- 
tion, but not with what you have. Your detention 
was unfortunate, in one sense, and fortunate in 
another. The return of the troopers gave me the 
stor}’' of your escape, and of your being wounded. 
Your stay in the valley, among the people who are 
familiar with all the conditions of the Indians, enabled 
you to learn much more concerning the peaceful dis- 
positions of the tribes there, and of the moral influence 
of the settlers, than you could otherwise have obtained. 
So, give yourself no uneasiness on that account. Your 
report is satisfactory in every particular, and will 
prove of much value in the future actions of the army. 
Your escape was quite miraculous. I am glad you are 
back at last, and ready for duty. “ 

“Thank you. General,” Beveridge replied, much 
relieved. “My one great fear, all along, has been 
that my being wounded had prevented my trip from 
resulting in any particular good, whatever.” 

Then, when he had met the comrades who had 
12 


178 


BARBARA : 


started out with him on the expedition, he was sur- 
prised to be told that the Corporal, who had been 
captured, had that same night been released by 
another Indian who had stolen into their camp, and 
who accompanied him up the valley until they fell in 
with the rest of the troopers. Who the Indian was 
they did not know; but when they said he had told 
them their Lieutenant was safe, but so badly wounded 
that he could not then be moved, and for them not to 
wait for him, Beveridge exclaimed : 

“That was Lone Arrow! And it was he that 
accompanied me across the country. I remember, 
now, the day after I had been wounded, and while I 
lay helpless at the home of one of the settlers, over- 
hearing a conversation that practically settles it in my 
own mind that it v/as he who released you and accom- 
panied you up the valley.” 

“What sort of a looking Indian is the one you refer 
to?” asked the one they called the Corporal. 

“Very straight, medium in height, well formed, 
and quite dark, with an ugly scar across the left cheek, 
such as a knife wound would leave, ’ ’ replied Beveridge. 

“It was the same one, no doubt,” responded the 
Corporal and the troopers. “I had about made up my 
mind that I was done for,” continued the Corporal. 
“I lay bound, hand and foot. The first I knew the 
red-skin was bending over me, knife in hand; and 
instead of scalping me, as I thought he intended doing, 
he cut away the thongs that bound me. Then, lifting 
me clear off the ground, as if I were a child, he car- 
ried me out of their camp and set me down on my 
feet. And, say, you may think we didn’t make tracks 


BARBARA : 


179 


up the river! Well, we did, though! And he never 
left me until we reached the other troopers. Then, 
when he told us of your condition, that you were not 
able to travel, and that you were in good hands, we 
just went on up the valley, and off to the west, and 
fell in with some of the army the next day.” 

“Well!” said Lieutenant Beveridge, “that is an 
Indian I cannot understand. He takes more interest 
in the whites than he does in his own people.” 


CHAPTER TEN. 


“When wave forgets to follow wave, 

And beats upon the sandy shore; 
Then, and not ’till then, 

Will I think of thee no more.” 

— Grant. 


On Lone Arrow’s return to his old haunts in the 
Sandusky valley, having taken less than two weeks 
for his journey, counting his time resting in the camp 
on the Auglaize, he presented himself at the Beau- 
mont home one afternoon ; and for an Indian, submitted 
with very good grace to a volley of questions that 
were put to him by all members of the family, but 
more especially by Barbara, all of which he answered 
after his own fashion. He told them of their trip 
across the country ; of how near they were to run- 
ning into a large force of hostiles, and of their safe 
arrival at the camp on the Auglaize. All of which 
was listened to with deepest interest, although much 
of it was drawn from him a little at a time. Still 
they were able to weave it all together and form a 
perfect story of the whole. 

180 




BARBARA : 


181 


When an opportunity offered, he gave Barbara the 
letter intrusted to him, and. his quick eye took in the 
flush of pleasure which came over her face as she 
received it from him and went off by herself to read 
it. Before he left he said to Barbara, when he found 
a chance to speak to her, and no one hear: 

“White man have your trinket. You give him 
that?” 

“Yes,” replied Barbara. “I let him take it, to be 
sure he would come back again. Did he show it to 
you?” 

She was anxious to learn how the Indian had come 
to know that the Lieutenant had her souvenir; if he 
had showi) it, and if so, why. It was a point on 
- which her sensitive nature was ready to rebel, as she 
deemed it unnecessary for the Indian to have been 
apprised of its whereabouts. So she asked with 
some show of spirit : 

“Did he show it to you? If not, how did you come 
to see it? Come. Lone Arrow, I am anxious to 
know!” 

“No. White man not show it. Lone Arrow saw 
him have it, and was going to take it away. Saw 
him kiss it, and when he go to put it in his pocket. 
Lone Arrow grabbed, and say: ‘Where 5^ou get that?’ 
And white soldier say ‘White Flame. gave it to me.’ 
If he say no; if you not give it; if white man was 
damn thief, then Lone Arrow would kill him and bury 
him in the woods. But white man no lie when he say 
you gave it to him. Lone Arrow believe him, and let 
him keep the trinket.” 

“Why, of course, I let him have it. What else 


182 


BARBARA : 


did you suppose? Lieutenant Beveridge would not 
take what was not given to him. ” 

“No, he brave! He say to Lone Arrow: ‘You let 
go!’ and he mean it. He look, oh, so very mad, 
when I hold his hand, and he look me in the eye, like 
this (and the Indian gazed at Barbara with rage in 
his eyes) and he say, ‘You let go!’ and then I let him 
keep it.’’ Then as an afterthought, the Indian said: 

“He come back? White Flame want him to come 
back?’’ 

“Well, yes; may be,’’ said Barbara. “Do you 
want him to?’’ 

The Indian was not fooled nor misled. He saw 
plainly enough, and understood better, as he said to 
her: 

“Yes, he come back. He is your big brave, and 
you are his squaw — his White Flame. Yes, I fetch 
him back some day.’’ 

Barbara was satisfied. Lieutenant Beveridge had 
not shown her token; of that she was sure; and she 
was happier for the thought. The letter he had sent 
her was one she read and reread many times, over 
and over. It took the place of the medallion she had 
given into his care, and for a time held, the same 
interest; for, whenever opportunity was offered, like 
the string of beads and the medal, it came forth from 
its hiding place, and was read and studied with the 
same interest. It was her first letter, and would have 
held a charm for that reason if for no other. But 
there was a more potent one than even that— to read 
it was to bring him near her. 

Her visits to the Blue Banks were renewed soon 


BARBARA : 


183 


after Beveridge had left, but were less frequent than 
ever before at the same time of the year. Somehow, 
she could not tell why, there was less of interest in 
them ; and she found that when she did go, she was 
constantly waiting and watching for a form that did 
not materialize. She often spent hours beneath the 
great grapevine, where, scattered about, still lay some 
of the cat-tails they had gathered that last afternoon, 
when Beveridge had taken his departure — on the day 
he had asked her to some day be his wife. Would he 
ever renew that request, would he ever again offer 
those earnest protestations of his love for her? On 
such occasions, when alone (for Jannice was again 
her almost constant companion), she would take out 
that letter, and once more read it over. Then sitting 
beneath the vine, she would feel he was beside her; 
and the endearing expressions of the letter, and the 
memories of those uttered by him as they had sat 
there together, were permitted to mingle and become 
a part of one another. Then, when she became so 
deeply absorbed with such thoughts as to almost for- 
get her very self, she would hum over, in a low Creole 
tone, the one Indian song she knew, the one refrain 
of all others that seemed to relieve her longing 
soul: 

‘Lemolo mika, tsolo siak palakie, 

Towagh tsee chil-chil siak sagjalli, 

Mika na chako? mesika chil-chil, 

Opitsah! mika winapie, 

Tsolo! Tso-lo!” 

Wild do I wander, far in the darkness, 

Shines a bright star, far up above. 

Will you not come to me? 


184 


BARBARA; 


You are the star: 

Sweetheart, I wait, 

Lost! Lo-st in the dark. 

During the weeks that foil owed ^slowly after the 
Lieutenant had taken his departure, news was re- 
ceived at Lower Sandusky of the progress of the 
army, under General Harrison, as it made its way 
down the Maumee country. They learned that the 
main body of soldiers, with those under General Win- 
chester from the Fort Wayne region, had formed a 
junction at Fort Defiance, near the old stockade built 
by General Wayne in 1794, and that they were 
steadily pressing the British and Indians down toward 
the Maumee bay. So far, however, no great battles 
had been fought. But in all of it they realized that 
Lieutenant Beveridge was in some way engaged, and 
like every other soldier, in constant danger. This of 
itself gave uneasiness to those who had known him, 
and as they heard nothing from him, they were most 
naturally continually fearing the worst. News had 
come to them, through a party of surveyors who had 
visited the site of Fort Stephenson, that it was quite 
probable a corps of observers might be established 
in the Sandusky valley, at the Fort, for the purpose 
of keeping up a line of communication between that 
place and Fort Defiance, on the upper Maumee, these 
to be operated as the two extremes of the right and 
left of the army, as it proceeded in its movements 
against the invading army, on its way toward the 
Detroit country. Out of it all, however, there came 
no real satisfaction to Barbara. The party of survey- 
ors remained in the vicinity several days, then took 


BARBARA : 


185 


their departure, and nothing more was ever heard of 
them or the scheme. 

Naturally, the Beaumonts hoped that with all these 
movements something might transpire that would 
send Lieutenant Beveridge over into the Sandusky 
valley once more. But day after day went by, and 
with the rising and setting of every sun there came, 
instead of him, the same disappointment. Unaccus- 
tomed to war and its rigid rules, they did not under- 
stand the reason for his absence. Yet, when all 
others gave up and ceased to talk on the subject, 
there was still one heart hoping on in silence. 

Through October and November absolutely noth- 
ing transpired in and about Lower Sandusky, save for 
the coming and going of Indians of the upper and 
lower country. Even Lone Arrow had gone off 
somewhere; and the settlements about the creeks, 
and the mission house, had fallen into their old status of 
quiet. Occasional bands of roving Indians were seen 
going up and down the valley; but as there were no 
contending forces at that point, and as the tribes 
located there were still at peace with all about them, 
no interference had taken place, and the settlers lived 
on in their quiet way. 

All hopes of a visit from Lieutenant Beveridge 
had about been given up. The Beaumonts and 
Barbara at last gave themselves over to the thought 
that he was so far away as to make it impossible for 
him to send any communication to them. And then 
(and it was the one thought that came to Barbara), 
possibly he had been killed or wounded, and could 
not let them know his fate. Or, still worse, he had, 


186 


BARBARA * 


she feared, forgotten them and her in the excitement 
of his duties, as she had prophesied to him he might. 
She fought against this last with a heroic determina- 
tion, and continually prayed for his safety. But in spite 
of the faith she had reposed in him, and the fervency 
of her prayers, these despondent feelings would over- 
come her, and not until Jannice and she would get 
together and talk over the whole affair between them- 
selves, would she be able to relieve her mind of its 
fears and doubtings; then for a few days her spirits 
would be brighter. 

But this was not to last much longer. The gloomy 
days of October and November, with their almost 
constant rains, gradually dragged their weary lengths 
along. Early in December a force of soldiers and 
workmen appeared at Lower Sandusky, and it was 
soon given out among the settlers that they would 
proceed at once to thoroughly rebuild, and in every 
way possible put the old stockade in a perfectly 
defensible shape. What there was of it to be called a 
fort had stood for years, just how many no one could 
exactly say, and was almost utterly worthless, save to 
be considered a trading post. It had never been reg- 
ularly built as a fort. It was composed only of logs, 
put in the ground on ends, the upper ends sharpened 
off. Altogether it covered but a small space of ground 
about the store house, where Indians and trappers 
gathered to exchange their furs and other articles for 
tobacco, whiskey, beads, teas, coffees, and such other 
goods of that nature as the trader would bring to the 
valley from Canada. Now, however, it was stated, 
the orders were for the erection of a perfect defense. 


BARBARA : 


187 


It was to be built on the old site, always considered 
the most available, at a point where it would command 
a most magnificent view of the river for almost a 
mile down stream, without a single object to obstruct 
the vision. The force sent out to execute the work 
was under a Colonel Perkins and a Captain Norton, 
of Connecticut. It was not large, only a gang of 
workmen and a small force of soldiers to guard the 
work as it progressed. Still, it gave something of 
life to the neighborhood. New pickets were set for 
the outside stockade, and a larger new inside defense 
constructed. But so doubtful was the Colonel in 
charge, of its ever being used as a defense, that when 
the work was finally completed, it was not, to say the 
least, in any particular as perfectly executed as it 
might have been. And when Major Croghan came 
to occupy it, in the summer of 1813, he found it nec- 
essary to again, practically, rebuild it. 

During the time the forces referred to were 
engaged in the construction of Fort Stephenson, 
troops from Pennsylvania and Virginia, on their way 
to the Detroit country, passed through Lower San- 
dusky, and remained in the vicinity of the stockade 
several days. These soldiers, the first in any partic- 
ular numbers that had ever gone that way, with 
their drum corps and their banners flying, created 
no little commotion among the settlers, and for the 
time gave them all something new and interesting to 
talk and think about. To Barbara and Jannice it 
appeared as a grand holiday; and it gave them a 
relief from the usual dullness of their every-day life. 

It was from these troops, on their way to the 


188 


BARBARA : 


Detroit region, that a detachment was made of one 
six-pounder cannon and a squad of soldiers from the 
Petersburg Volunteers and the Pittsburg Blues was 
left at the Fort, and played a most conspicuous part 
in its defense, late in the summer of 1813. 

On the 20th of the same month, General Harrison 
and his staff, together with an escort of troopers, 
under the command of Colonel Ball, put up at the 
Fort for a few days, and then set out for Chillicothe. 
On their arrival, Barbara was much elated with the 
hope that among the mounted men she might find 
the one particular person to her the most desirable. 
But he was not with them, instead at that time being 
far away, in another part of the country, all to her, of 
course, unknown. Still, the anticipation, although 
not realized, helped to pass many a gloomy afternoon. 

It was a winter such as the little hamlet of Lower 
Sandusky had never before known. The time con- 
sumed in the construction of the new fort, the arrival 
and departure of troops, the visits of the commander 
himself, were all matters of considerable importance, 
and constantly kept the little settlement in a state of 
excitement never before experienced. To them all 
it was a season of great wonder, and most naturally 
helped to pass over months that would otherwise have 
moved but slowly enough. 

Jannice, ever vivacious and full of life, had fallen 
into the new current of transpiring events with a full 
enjoyment of the constantly recurring incidents of 
the season. She had found, as she called it, her 
“affinity" in the person of a Sergeant Bates, one of 
the soldiers at the Fort, and she was so full of her 


BARBARA : 


189 


own happiness that she imagined every one else was 
the same ; and to a certain degree it had its effect on 
Barbara, and enabled her to be more like her own 
former self. To see Jannice so light-hearted was 
something of happiness for her; yet, in her secret 
heart there was an unfilled desire and an aching void 
always; a constant longing she could not get rid of, 
do what she might. Among all the throng there was 
one fo^m lacking; one for whom she now constantly 
watched and waited; a footstep she was always listen- 
ing for, and that did not come. 

To her, in spite of all the turmoil, in the midst of 
all the unusual commotion, there was yet a craving 
desire it did not satisfy. And as the dreary months 
dragged by, her heart began to grow weary in its 
waitings, in spite of the enjoyments of all those about 
her. Not a word had been heard from Lieutenant 
Beveridge, or of his whereabouts, since his arrival 
with the army after the trip through the wilderness. 
The letter he had sent back by Lone Arrow had been 
read, and then reread, so often that every word was 
impressed indelibly upon her mind — was committed 
to memory, and no longer supplied the desires of her 
aching heart. She treasured the missive as sacredly 
as on its first arrival, if anything more, as it and the 
ring were the only real reminders of his pleasant 
companionship. In truth, it was all coming to seem to 
her but another happy dream without a realization. 
And no wonder; months had elapsed since his de- 
parture, and not so much as a word had come from 
him, or of him. 

Lone Arrow had not been over into the Maumee 


190 


BARBARA : 


country since his long trip with the Lieutenant. If he 
had, why, nothing had come even from that meagre 
source. It was not known if he were yet with the 
army, or even if alive. And this long continued 
silence, after his fervent declarations, and his mad 
desire for a memento — a remembrance — was telling 
on her always heretofore bright and genial spirits. 

But for the fact that Jannice had found pleasure 
in the company of Sergeant Bates, time would have 
indeed hung heavily on Barbara’s hands. Then, 
through Beaumont, who had business intercourse with 
the officers and men about the Fort quite a number 
had called at the home of Barbara, as well as at the 
Deusants’, and in this way both young ladies became 
acquainted with several of the officers, among them, 
besides Bates, one or two who were quite desirous of 
laying siege to the hearts of both Barbara and 
Jannice. 

More than one of those who found time and oppor- 
tunity to call at the Beaumont home, would gladly 
have paid homage at the feet of its beautiful auburn- 
haired inmate, but they found nothing to encourage 
their attentions. True, Miss Barbara, as they called 
her, was suave and polite, and did make their calls 
agreeable; it was her nature to do all that. Indeed, 
she did all possible to entertain those who called, 
either with Beaumont, or by themselves. But the 
ones who cared to see knew full well that it was only 
those little graciousnesses that go to make a woman 
entertaining. Men of sense and social qualities can 
always discern such things, but a designing knave, 
never. 


BARBARA: 


191 


Barbara and Jannice had been cautioned, not only 
by their people, but by Father Jacquese as well, that 
while they should be all politeness and kindness to 
those about the Fort, they must remember they were 
strangers, and men they knew nothing about. This 
was hardly necessary, but it was timely. A Captain 
McFarlan, one who came as a sort of sub-contractor 
on the work of rebuilding the fort, and one whom 
none knew but little about, had tried in various 
ways, and on several occasions, to put himself 
on some sort of friendly relations with Barbara. 
He had made excuses for calling, either to in- 
quire for Beaumont, with whom he endeavored 
to work up some business dealings, or when he 
had accidentally met Barbara on her way home; 
but he was a man she could scarcely tolerate, and 
he had received no incentive to intrude himself on 
her presence. But a drop of liquor, then almost as 
available as now, especially with those who had a 
fondness for it, would induce McFarlan to forget 
himself and to do things a sensible man would not. 
At such times he became a nuisance to himself and all 
about him. 

Barbara had been at the Deusant home, one after- 
noon, when she and Jannice had stopped on their 
return from the trading post. As they passed the 
mission house the priest had noticed that McFarlan 
was following them at a short distance, and that he 
was well under the influence of liquor. After they had 
been gone some little time, the instance began worry- 
ing him, and he started out for a walk in the direction 
of their homes. Barbara, after accompanying Jan- 


192 


BARBARA: 


nice to her gate and bidding her good night, started 
on the way toward her own home. She had gone 
but a little way when she was overtaken by the man 
McFarlan, who approaching her, at once showed his 
condition by saying: 

“Good evening, my little Creole beauty. Are you 
out for a walk? Yes? Then permit me to accom^ 
pany you. ’ ’ 

“Sir!” was Barbara’s quick response. “Mr. Mc- 
Farlan! You certainly have forgotten your manhood! 
Else you would not presume to address me by such a 
title!” 

“Hoity! toity! My little beauty! Don’t get in a 
rage. It is a lovely evening for a stroll ; and you and 
I will take a ramble down by the riverside ! Come, 
let me take your arm.” 

And suiting his actions to his words, he stepped 
up in front of her, and was about to grasp her about 
the waist, when with a quick motion she stepped back- 
ward — then a dark figure fiew past her and dealt the in- 
truder a swift, sudden blow on the head that sent him 
sprawling in the grass and weeds, a limp, helpless 
mass of drunken humanity! 

The action was so sudden, Barbara’s fright so 
great, and her flight for home so precipitous, that for 
the life of her, when it was all over, she could not tell 
for a certainty how it all happened. She merely had 
a vision of a figure, coming from where, she could not 
say; of an outstretched arm, and of a fist’s sudden 
contact with the man’s head; saw the fellow stagger 
and fall, and a figure receding from view. All this 
as she turned and took to flight. Arriving at the 


BARBARA : 


193 


home, she decided to say nothing of the affair then, 
knowing well enough the terrible wrath it would 
create in Beaumont. 

An hour or two after, when the drunken man 
came to his senses, when the potent influence of the 
liquor had spent its strength on his system, and as he 
was staggering on toward the Fort, he ran into the 
arms of the priest, who said to him : 

“Thou son of the evil one, where have you been, 
and what sins have you committed that your step is 
so uncertain and slow?” 

“Oh, you prating hypocrite!" replied the man. 
“Don't try to add your blarney to my injuries! For 
let me tell you, that drunk as 1 was, I verily believe 
it was you who dealt me that infernal blow. And 
if I was sure of it, you would better be in hell than let 
me have a chance to revenge myself!” 

“Talk not of revenge now; but take my advice, 
and get your miserable drunken carcass from this 
vicinity before Beaumont, the trader, lays his hands 
on you, and wreaks out his wrath for insults offered 
his daughter Barbara. Make yourself scarce, and 
that at once, or the punishment given thee this night 
will be as boy’s play to what you will receive at his 
hands.” 

And the man, still weak from the effects of his 
debauch, dragged himself away toward the Fort. 
And when the next morning Beaumont went in search 
of him, towering with rage, just as Barbara had 
feared, the man was nowhere to be found. Whether 
he was in hiding, or had already left, he never knew; 
only that he was gone, and was about the Fort no more. 

18 


194 


BARBARA : 


In comparison with this was a Captain Waggoner, 
of Pennsylvania, a young man of good address, who 
tried on various occasions to pay his homage at the 
shrine of her beauty and her pleasant ways. He had 
asked of Beaumont the privilege of calling, which 
request was readily granted. He had, in very gentle- 
manly terms and language, requested the same of 
Barbara herself, when she had replied to his request : 

“I shall be only too pleased to entertain you, Cap- 
tain, as the guest of my father, or of the family, 
whenever you may choose to honor our home with 
your presence; and while I am glad to have you come, 
I must say, in all candor, that I do not care to extend 
our friendship farther than as mere friends. I regret 
having to say this, for I do not wish to give offense, 
injure your feelings, nor to lessen your friendship for 
my father or myself.” 

The Captain made several calls after that inter- 
view, when finding that the little woman was sincere 
in what she said, while yet he held her in high esteem, 
he ceased to allow his feelings for her to show them- 
selves, and gradually gave up his efforts in that direc- 
tion, only to be followed by others during the winter 
and spring- months, all with no better success. She 
was not rude, not uhkind, nor yet uncourteous. She 
would do her best to entertain them ; but there was 
always before her that one face; that of the man who 
possessed her memento — call it — the man she had res- 
cued from drowning — and whose silence she always 
wondered at, and asked herself: “Is he alive or 
dead?” 

Not so with Jannice. Heart whole and mind free. 


BARBARA : 


195 


while she no doubt had a strong" preference for the 
one she called “My Sergeant,” still, all through the 
winter she led them all a merry time, and kept Ser- 
geant Bates in a kettle of hot water” on every occa- 
sion when beaux were in attendance. It \i^as impos- 
sible for any one of them to tell if he was the favored 
one or not. 

“They are all so very nice, I really cannot say, my 
dear Barbara, which one I am to prefer,” she would 
say, when upbraided by her friend for her cruelty to 
the Sergeant. “It is all so pleasant to have them 
come paying court to me, that I shall not discourage 
the one nor the other. Is that what you call a petite 
coquette, dear Barbara? For if it is, I really cannot 
help it!” 

“I am afraid you are, indeed, a little coquette, 
Jannice,” Barbara replied in a regretful tone. 

“Oh, well, ma chere! I cannot help it! To be 
admired, it is indeed so nice. And they— well, Bar- 
bara, how am I to know if 1 do not love them all ! 
The Sergeant, he is so very gallant; so obliging, to 
me. So, too, is the Captain and the Lieutenant. And, 
by-and-by, oh dear, they will all be gone- and then, 
indeed, 1 shall be so sorry for them all.” 

She was a born coquette. It came natural to her; 
she could not help her actions, and therefore should 
not be censured for them. If in that far-away 
corner, and at that early day, she could make her own 
life pleasant, and at the same time smooth over the 
rough places of a soldier’s duties, why not let her? 

And in this manner the winter wore away for those 
in the Sandusky valley. To some, the happiest they 


196 


BARBARA: 


had ever known; to some, so full of new and exciting 
events that it was not nearly long enough; but to one 
heart, midst all its strange happenings, filled with a 
longing and an anxious hope that at times made the 
days seem as months, and the months as years. And 
all filled with a sadness she could not repress. From 
September until July! It was a long, long time, for 
her who waits! 


CHAPTER ELEVEN. 


Till the sun grows cold, 

And the stars are old — ' 

And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold.” 

— Taylor. 


It all seemed to Lieutenant Beveridge, when he 
had finally reached his own command, and had once 
more taken up the general routine work of array life, 
as if the first chapter of his manhood had come to a 
sudden close. And, then, the query was as how the 
next one would open and end — and when. Had he 
been aware then of the length of time that would 
intervene before he could again have the pleasure of 
visiting the Sandusky valley, and once more seeing 
the one woman in all the world more dear to him than 
his own existence, it is doubtful if he should have 
proven the good and faithful soldier he did. His hope 
in that regard gave him constant courage to do and to 
endure; and for the remainder of the campaign that 
fall and winter he did valiant service with his com- 
pany. He was always ready, day and night, for scout 
duty, the hardest that can be imposed on a soldier in 

197 


198 


BARBARA: 


a new country; always hoping and believing that in 
some way it would yet take him back into the Lower 
Sandusky region. Fate, however, decreed otherwise, 
and it never chanced that he was sent in that direc- 
tion, but often in some other. 

After following the good fortunes of General Har- 
rison and his army on down the Maumee valley, and 
after having scouted all over the region in the direc- 
tion of the Detroit country, after engaging in the siege 
of Fort Meigs, he was sent by a roundabout way on 
the route toward Cincinnati ; and then the troops of 
which he was a part were notified that they were to 
be mustered out. Then, while they were rendez- 
voused at Fort Jefferson he received a letter from his 
mother, telling of the fast failing health of his father, 
and saying if it were a possible thing for him to do so, 
he ought to return home at once. This was late in 
December. For a time he did not know just what 
was best to do, or which course to pursue. He was 
most anxious to see Barbara, and as well to perform 
the duties incumbent on him as a son. After revolv- 
ing the subject in his mind for several days, using 
every effort at his command to be retained in the 
service through the balance of the winter, after real- 
izing that he had failed (and that even though he 
might succeed, he would not be able to get back into the 
valley country), he at last gave up. Few, if any, of 
the troopers, had a desire for a winter campaign, 
while none of them had the incentive of the Lieuten- 
ant for going back into the wilderness. He then wrote 
a long and earnest letter to Barbara, telling her of his 
disappointment at not being able to see her before 



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199 


200 


BARBARA : 


returning to his home in Kentucky, and of his discour- 
agement at his failure to be retained in the army 
through the winter. He explained to her the urgent 
necessity for his presence at home, owing to the fail- 
ing health of his father, and in every way tried to 
assure her (and himself as well) that just as soon as it 
was possible for him to do so, he should return to the 
valley. But it was all with a faint heart that he tried 
to keep up the hope, but he still trusted that some- 
thing then unforeseen would transpire that would 
enable him to penetrate the wilderness that separated 
him from all he held most dear in life. 

The father, mother and sister were greatly rejoiced 
to have him at home once more; and their happiness, 
and the father’s illness, soon filled the void in his 
mind, and for a time caused him to forget his great 
disappointment. Besides the condition in which he 
found the business affairs of the plantation soon 
absorbed his entire attention. He at once realized 
that only by the closest application, and the most care- 
ful thought, could he possibly hope to bring them out 
all right, and save the estate from going to the ham- 
mer — and that he swore he would prevent if it was in 
his power-to do it. This most naturally took every 
moment of his time and consideration, and kept him 
so busy for a season that he scarcely had a moment 
for any purpose, aside from the business involved in 
the estate, and certainly left him very few hours for 
dreamy thoughts. 

During the long winter evenings, after he had been 
at home for several weeks, and began to see his way 
clear, and that his work was succeeding, when the 


BARBARA : 


201 


dreary weather kept them all indoors, he entertained 
the family with the stories of his soldier life. He told 
them, over and over again, of his trip down into the 
Sandusky valley; of his escape from the Indians, and 
of his most rernarkable leap and rescue. He took 
great deliglit in conversing on this one epoch in his 
campaign, for then he had a splendid opportunity not 
only to think of Barbara, but to talk of her and speak 
her name. And in doing so he described her and the 
valley home in the most favorable way imaginable to 
his mind. He could not say enough in praise of the 
people for the kind treatment they had given him, 
while he lay helpless and a stranger in their home, 
and all the time he was according all the credit to the 
one who had saved him from a watery grave. He told 
them of his long ride through the wilderness with the 
Indian for his guide, and of his arrival at camp; but 
he invariably returned to his story of his stay at the 
home of the Beaumonts, and had more to say concern- 
ing it and them than all the rest of his army experi- 
ences. The father was much interested in the stories 
and incidents of the war. Theirs was a family that 
had been represented in some capacity in every strug- 
gle through all their generations, and it filled the 
sire’s heart with the inspirations of his own youthful 
days to hear his son relate his experiences. 

But it was the mother who took the most profound 
interest in his stories. For as she listened to them 
she was, all unbeknown to the son, weaving a romance 
as well as he. Hence, when he made her his confi- 
dante, and at last confessed to her his love for Bar- 
bara, it came to her without any surprise, whatever. 


202 


BARBARA : 


She had known it before he told her. For when he 
spoke to her the first time of the incident of Barbara 
having rescued him from drowning, she felt but too 
plainly what the sequel most naturally would be. To 
her he talked by the hour, when relieved from the 
cares of the business; and she, like the true Kentuck- 
ian mother she was, listened, and entered into the 
spirit of her son’s evident earnest affections for the 
young woman whom he had met through such strange 
circumstances, and to whom he without a doubt was 
indebted for his life. Feeling this in every fiber of 
her soul, the mother herself could not have restrained 
the gratitude she had for the unknown Barbara. 

In one of their talks Beveridge told his mother of 
how he had come to give Barbara the ring she had 
presented him with, when he had left home for the 
army, and of the token that had been trusted to him 
in turn. He tried to explain to the mother the mys- 
tery that seemed in his mind to surround the medal, 
and consequently the life of Barbara, as well. Yet of 
it all he knew nothing, whatever. All of it interested 
the mother, for the reason that she could plainly 
foresee what the final outcome would be. One such 
as she, reared in the early pioneer days of Kentucky — 
days filled to overflowing with romance and story — 
when the family circle was in danger every hour, 
when incidents more strange than this of her son’s 
were familiar tales — a mother like her, reared midst 
the dangers of the Indians and the wolves, could 
easily understand how, and why, her son had become 
so deeply enamoured with a woman, with such a 
woman, as he had described Barbara to be — with a 


BARBARA : 


203 


mystery hanging over her, ancj she the preserver of his 
life. She could easily comprehend it all. ' The only 
concern, the only doubt, naturally, to come into her 
mother heart, was if she were worthy of her son. 
And when he was talking with her one day, and 
spoke of his devotion for the maiden, she said to 
him : 

“If she is worthy of you, my son, and I pray God 
she is, and you some day make her your wife, and she 
conies to our home, she shall be to me as a daughter — 
in the place of the one who now rests in her eternal 
peace. It is my constant prayer, my son, that she 
may in every way prove the noble woman you take 
her to be. “ 

“Mother, you have but to know her, and see her 
great, womanly qualities, as I have seen them, and 
then there can be no doubt that you will love her as 
she does you, already,” Beveridge had replied, for he 
was ever full of praise of the woman who possessed 
his whole heart. 

All through the winter months Lieutenant Bever- 
idge was kept constantly busy with the affairs pertain- 
ing to the plantation, and the collecting and payment 
of outstanding obligations. He worked at that as he 
did everything else, with all the energy he possessed. 
He was compelled on several occasions to make long 
journeys on horseback into other sections of the 
State, in order to get the finances in proper shape. 
For as the months were rolling by, he was becoming 
more determined than ever that just as soon as it was 
possible he should take some steps toward carrying 
out his intentions of again visiting the valley, and 


204 


BARBARA : 


then persuade Barbara to accompany him back to his 
home in Kentucky. 

For a time after he had reached the old plantation, 
which was in December, he kept looking for a letter 
from Barbara in reply to his, and wondered that none 
came. He had written to her from the army on the 
Auglaize and had sent it by Lone Arrow. Then, 
when he found himself on his way home, he had sent 
her another. After a while, when he had time to sit 
down and think the whole affair over, he concluded 
he should not expect a reply to the first, as naturally 
she could not know where to address him; and then, 
possibly, the second may never have reached her. If 
this should prove to be the case, then what must she 
think of him? With no knowledge of his whereabouts, 
how could she well write to him? And then, possibly, 
she had written to him, and her letter may have been 
lost. 

Then he took time to sit down and write her a long 
and fervent letter, stating how he had longed to hear 
from her, of his writing to her before, and fearing 
that she had not received either of his letters, he would 
try once more. He poured out his very soul in the 
effort to convince her of his continued love for her, 
explained how busy he was kept with the business of 
the plantation, of the father’s illness, and of the long 
and earnest talks he had indulged in with the mother 
— told her all in detail of his present surroundings and 
daily life, and of his determination, ere long, of in 
some way returning to the valley country. This he 
addressed to “Miss Barbara Beaumont, Lower San- 
dusky, near Fort Stephenson, in care of army head- 


BARBARA : 


zu5 

quarters at Chillicothe, to be sent through with military 
mail.” It was an extensive superscription, but now 
that he feared for his other letters not reaching their 
destination, he wanted to make sure of this one if 
possible, and he hoped the address might carry it 
through all right 

Then, for days he could scarcely think of anything 
else but of a reply, and the thought that if both his 
former letters had failed to reach her, what she must 
think of him and his conduct! It would be nothing 
strange, he said, when he considered the condition of 
the country and her remoteness from civilization, if 
his last had been lost. It could not help but worry 
him, the more he thought of it. He had promised to 
write her, and to return to her with her tokens. And 
now, if she had not received a word from him since 
he had left the valley, what must she think of him 
and his apparent perfidy by this time! For days the 
thought kept him in a state of perpetual torment, and 
his mind in such a condition as to almost completely 
unfit him for any sort of reasonable mental thought 
or labor. The fear of what she might think — that he 
had forgotten her, as she had said he would, when he 
again reached the army and his home, set his brain on 
fire; and the only relief he could find was in taking 
long and furious rides about the plantation and sur- 
rounding country. No doubt but she imagined him 
to be untrue to every vow he had made her, and as a 
consequence he suffered the worst pangs of remorse! 

For a time after he had again written her, he 
trusted to others to bring the mail from Lexington, 
but the suspense becoming too great, he at last took 


206 


BARBARA: 


that duty upon himself, and then made daily trips to 
the postoffice and back, returning always empty- 
handed. And it soon began to look to him very 
much like “the letter that never came.” Each hour 
his spirits grew more despondent, and his disappoint- 
ment greater, as day after day went by with no word 
from her he loved so devotedly. 

It was not until some time in February of the next 
year that the answer to his last letter reached him. 
Then it set him all aglow with a desire to at once 
penetrate the deep wilderness, lying between the Ohio 
river and the Sandusky valley; and it was only when 
all the impossibilities of such a trip were explained to 
him b)^ his father, and after he had been fondly 
chaffed by his mother for his impatience, that he 
reluctantly gave up the thought, and once more 
endeavored to devote himself to the business so much 
in need of his best efforts. But it was all hard work 
after that; and as the spring began approaching he 
was wrought up to such a determination, to in some 
way get back to the region where all the hopes of his 
life were confined, that for a few days he was com- 
pelled to desist from all efforts at work of any sort. 
Then, after a rest, he put his best energies to the 
business once more, with but the one thought upper- 
most in his mind — to complete his labors, get the 
affairs of the estate where they would survive his 
absence for another season, and then in some way take 
himself back into the Sandusky valley, or perish in the 
attempt! 

He held frequent conversations with his father on 
the subject, explaining to him the situation the busi- 


BARBARA: 


207 


ness affairs were then in, in order that he might be 
thoroughly familiar with them, and be able to take 
charge of them in his absence. He fully realized the 
feeble condition of the father but he believed he could 
manage the affairs through another season, with the 
aid of a trusted overseer; and then, when he had re- 
visited the valley and had obtained the full desires of 
his heart, he declared he would return home and 
assume complete charge of everything, and permit the 
father to enjoy the balance of his life in peace and 
quiet. 

The Lieutenant had carefully watched the military 
movements all through the winter months, and it 
appeared plain to him that nothing positive had been 
accomplished in the extreme Northwest, and that 
another campaign through the spring and summer 
was inevitable. Especially did this seem so after the 
reports of General Winchester’s surrender had reached 
him, and when he heard of the terrible slaughter of 
the troops and settlers near the River Raisin. It 
was early in February that this news reached them, 
and he made up his mind that the first opportunity 
that was offered him he would again enter the army. 
The father plainly saw the bent of his son’s intentions, 
and with his own aspirations for military honors, he 
gave the son the assurance that no matter what con- 
dition the business might be in when the opportunity 
came he should have his consent to enter the service 
once more, if he desired. 

The mother, however, was more unwilling to have 
her son again put his life in peril, as he had done 
before; still, when she considered the one ulterior 


208 


BARBARA: 


motive urging him on, she knew full well how need- 
less it would be for her to enter a protest. Knowing 
that his whole heart was deepl}^ involved, and that he 
was overwhelmed with a love for the maiden who had 
so mysteriously come into his life, by saving it, she 
decided that, rather than throw any obstacles in his 
way, on the contrary to enter into the spirit of his 
undertaking, and in every way encourage him to do 
just what he had so fully set his mind on — to again 
enter the army at the first opportunity. 

Young Beveridge had always, from his earliest 
boyhood days, made an earnest confidante of his 
mother, seldom having any ambition or desire upon 
which he did not take her into his counsel. He had 
followed it up faithfully into his young manhood, and 
now, in his more mature years, he never felt as if he 
could well leave her out of any of his enterprises. It 
was so with this affair of his heart. He kept nothing 
back from her. He loved her as men seldom do their 
mothers; and he considered her advice above all 
others, even that of his father. And to go contrary 
to her deliberate opinion was something he had never 
done. While she, on her part, had always made it 
her life study to be in the right when giving him her 
counsel ; for on such occasions she entered with her 
whole soul into whatever was at issue. And with 
her pure mother instincts of what would prove for the 
best, she always stood on the winning side. She 
rejoiced in this confidence given her, and now that the 
son was grown to man’s estate, and he still continued 
his faith in her, she felt that no sacrifice was too great 
for her to make, only so she advised him right, and 


BARBARA : 


209 


brought happiness to him. She knew that in the 
years to come he would remember it of her, and bless 
a memory she must some day leave to him. 

With this feeling of pride and love it was that when 
he began showing an impatience for the almost impos- 
sible, she talked with him about his again breaking 
away from the family circle for the purpose of once 
more entering the army. She assured him that ere 
long some opportunity would present itself, when he 
could go in a manner befitting the family name : to 
abide with patience the time, and to then go with a 
mother’s blessing, with a prayer for his welfare and 
safety, and a hope that he would carry out the motives 
of his heart in a noble, manly way. 

And it was because the Lieutenant had full confi- 
dence in his mother that he went to her on receiving 
Barbara’s letter, late in February, and explained to 
her what his intentions were, and that he was anxious 
to go then, providing she would give her consent. 
And it was then she counseled him to wait with 
patience the proper opportunity; and he, in a full 
reliance on her better judgment, decided to take her 
advice. Although it was contrary to what he had 
hoped she might give, he took it cheerfully, to all 
appearances, and applied himself anew to his father’s 
interest, waiting on until the opportunity came as the 
mother had predicted. 


14 


CHAPTER TWELVE. 


“The one face I looked for was not there; 

The one loved voice was mute, 
ly an unseen presence filled the air, 

And baffled my pursuit.” 

— Longfellow, 


The winter of 1812 and 1813 was fast drawing to 
a close. It had proven one full of interest, in many 
ways, to the settlers about the old log mission house 
and Fort Stephenson. The old stockade that had 
stood as a sort of guide-post for so many years, 
between the then present and a forgotten past, had 
been thoroughly rebuilt, and was, in comparison with 
the old defense, quite a formidable affair. The troops 
that had arrived early in December, had completed 
their work and then gone away, while still others had 
come to take their places. While the greater portion 
of the settlers were along the creeks, almost a half 
mile to the north and south, it had kept them all in 
such a turmoil of excitement as they had never before 
enjoyed. These constant arrivals and departures of 
troops put an end to almost all sorts of business pur- 

210 


BARBARA: 


211 


suits, save that of living, and wondering what the next 
lot would bring. It was rare for a week to pass by 
and not bring its usual lot of soldiers, either of in- 
fantry, artillery, troopers, or pioneers, on their way 
to the west, the latter employed in opening roads 
through the great forests. 

These constant comings and goings kept up a hope 
in the mind of Barbara that they might yet be the 
means of bringing into the valley once more the man 
she had rescued from the Indians. And but for the 
turn of affairs, already described as transpiring in and 
about Fort Stephenson, it would have proven a most 
dreary season to her. The letter written by Bever- 
idge, while on his way home, had never reached its 
destination. Mails in those early days were quite 
uncertain, and it had in some mysterious way disap- 
peared. At all events, it never reached Barbara, and 
she was as much in the dark regarding his existence 
as if he had departed from off the face of the earth. 
The letter Lone Arrow had brought her, away last 
September, was all she had to remind her of him, save 
the ring upon her finger; and that in some way came 
to be a reminder that gave more of pain than pleasure. 
But even then, in her despondent condition, the arrival 
and departure of the troops brought much of interest, 
even after she had given up the last gleam of hope 
that Lieutenant Beveridge might yet be one of their 
number. To please her people, and to be with Jan- 
nice, she entered into all the amusements of the 
season, so wonderfully unusual to them all, and tried 
in every way to hide the anguish of her heart. 

The great event of the entire season came, how- 


212 


BARBARA; 


ever, when late in January, General Harrison and his 
staff, and an escort of troopers under command of 
Colonel Ball, put in their appearance from Chillicothe, 
and it was announced that before his departure the 
General would give a reception to the settlers about 
the Fort and valley. Everything else was absorbed 
in that, and all was laid aside for the time being 
When the day was announced, and when it arrived, 
every citizen of the Lower Sandusky region, including 
Indians, was present, and in gala-day attire. Such a 
thing was never dreamed of before, and all prepared 
to get out of it all the notoriety and glory possible. 
Every man and woman felt anxious to see and shake 
hands with the great General ; and they did. 

The old hero was affable to all, the ladies and the 
Indian chiefs, and jolly with the men and soldiers. 
He tried his best to please, and he came very near it 
that day. Barbara and Jannice were there, and were 
presented. He appeared to take great delight in con- 
versing with them, for they were, indeed, attractive. 
They, like the rest, were fitted out in their gayest 
holiday attire, all of which they had arranged with 
scrupulous care and much good taste. Both had a 
faculty of appearing graceful in anything they adorned 
themselves with ; and on this ocdasion both had been 
most successful in appearing in very becoming gowns, 
and in that excellent taste which caused more than 
one soldier heart to beat with unusual vigor. The 
General, himself, old warrior that he was, showed 
that for grace and beauty he yet possessed a warm 
and loving heart. He had managed, after the first 
formal ceremonies were over, to again engage the two 


BARBARA: 


213 


ladies in conversation, and to purposely prolong it, 
with much pleasure. It was during this tete-a-tete 
that an inquiry was made by Barbara concerning 
Lieutenant Beveridge, when the General, in a tone of 
some surprise and no little chagrin, after having 
informed her of the Lieutenant’s return to his home 
in Kentucky, on account of the illness of his father, 
added : 

“And now, since you have mentioned his name, I 
must offer to you. Miss Beaumont, a most humble 
apology. For, do you know, that somewhere among 
my papers, with other mail, is a letter addressed to 
‘Miss Barbara Beaumont, Lower Sandusky, near 
Fort Stephenson,’ which came through from Chilli- 
cothe, and of which, I hope you will believe me, my 
dear lady, I had not thought before since my 
arrival. ’’ 

The announcement came to Barbara with as much 
surprise as would a clap of thunder from out a clear 
sky. She had only hoped of hearing something of 
his whereabouts, and with never a thought of receiv- 
ing a letter. Asked only to obtain, if possible, a bit 
of information — to learn if yet he were alive. She 
had actually feared to make the inquiry, lest it might 
reveal to her a truth she had not dared to speak of, 
even to Jannice, and yet had carried in secret all the 
winter — the fear that he might be dead. And now, 
so unexpectedly, to be the recipient of a letter from 
the man she loved above all else on earth, was almost 
too much good news to believe, or that really could 
be true. And not until the well-worn missive was 
placed in her hands could she fully realize it. 


214 


BARBARA: 


The General noted the look of eager expectancy 
that came over her face at the announcement; and 
turning to his Adjutant, he asked that officer to look 
up the letter, he the meantime engaging the young 
ladies in further conversation. When the package 
was at last given her, she felt as if every particle of 
strength she had ever possessed had left her body; 
and in the struggle (and it seemed one) to break the 
seal, Jannice, seeing her trepidation, offered their 
excuses to the General, and leading, half dragging, 
Barbara to the officers’ quarters, where they had left 
their wraps, gave her an opportunity to read it by 
himself. 

We shed tears of sorrow, and we as well weep with 
great joy. At the first the heart breaks down in 
weakness; but with the last, it swells, it expands 
the soul, and the entire nerve system bursts forth in 
tears of gladness; the whole being is overcome, and 
a refulgence of tears is as great a relief in joy as in 
sorrow. Jannice withdrew, stepped outside, pulled 
the door to, and guarded it with her presence, deter- 
mined that alone, with no one to see, Barbara should 
break the seal of her great happiness, the first she had 
enjoyed through all the weary, yet exciting winter. 

When she again opened the door and stepped 
inside, Barbara sat with tear-stained cheeks, the letter 
opened, and folded to her bosom. As Jannice 
approached her she arose, and putting her arms about 
her girl-friend’s neck, again broke down with a 
paroxysm of joy, through which there still came a 
glad, happy smile, as she said: 

“Thank God, Jannice, he is alive and well.” 


BARBARA : 


215 


The two sat there in an almost unbroken silence for 
a few moments, and then after giving Jannice in brief 
the contents of the letter, they once more mingled 
with the others present, and for the balance of the 
afternoon and evening were as happy as the happiest 
of them all. 

At last when the home was reached, and Barbara 
had dismissed her escort, and could freely give vent 
to her pent-up feelings, after a fresh gush of womanly 
tears, she told her people of the receipt of a letter from 
Lieutenant Beve'ridge. Then, sitting down, she dis- 
closed its contents to them, save the tender missives 
it conveyed to her. The whole household, including 
Father Jacquese, were rejoiced to hear that he was 
alive and well. The date was nearly a month old, she 
found on reading it the next morning, before the rest 
of the family were up; but what of that! It was from 
Lieutenant Beveridge; he was alive and well — and 
with his people, at his home in Kentucky. Prevented, 
he told her, from entering the army that winter by 
the illness of his father, he was at that time busy with 
the details of the affairs of the plantation, demanding 
his personal consideration. He told her of his confes- 
sion of his love for her to his mother; and of what that 
dear woman had said. Also, of the “little sister,” and 
of her desire to meet the one who was so dear to her 
brother. It was full, all through, with an affection 
such as a chivalrous son of a noble Kentucky mother 
would write to the woman who had won his heart. 
It was such a letter as a tender, noble-hearted woman, 
like Barbara, would rejoice to receive from a man she 
loved. It was filled with an earnest, frank, manly 


216 


BARBARA: 


affection : and it made her soul rejoice, and for the 
time she forgot the forebodings and lonely feelings 
endured through the winter, when all others about her 
were so happy and full of life. 

Then, after she had read it, time after time, and 
had absorbed every word of its contents, until it had 
become a part of herself, she sat down and penned 
him one in return; and before the General had again 
gone on his way, she intrusted it to him, to forward 
with other mail to Chillicothe, and from thence to 
Lexington, Kentucky. 

“Ho! Ho!’' said the Commander, when the letter 
was given him. “And this is what made Lieutenant 
Beveridge so extremely anxious to remain in the army ! 
Well, Miss Beaumont, we shall see to it that he is 
mustered early in the spring.” 

And for his kindness, Barbara bestowed on him one 
of her most gracious smiles, as she courtesied and gave 
him her thanks. 

At last the dreary months of winter passed by in 
the valley, and in their place came the bright sunshine 
of spring, bringing with it the perfumes of early wild 
flowers. New life everywhere began unfolding under 
the genial rays of the sun, the brightness and the 
life-giving qualities of which are always so exuber- 
ant and animating along the banks, dells and glades 
of the Sandusky river. 

Gradually the soldiers at the Fort had departed 
for other and more active scenes of warfare, until now 
only a small squad remained to “keep camp.” Jan- 
nice missed Sergeant Bates very much, for all through 
the winter months he had paid the most assiduous 


BARBARA: 


217 


attention to her every whim and caprice, and had 
thereby made her life almost as one continual round 
of enjoyment. He had gone with the rest, on an order 
to join the forces at or near Fort Aleigs; and Jannice 
was now, because of his friendship and her pleasant 
associations with him, the more fully able to appreciate 
the loneliness of spirit that Barbara had endured since 
the departure of Lieutenant Beveridge. They had 
once more renewed their wanderings up and down 
the river banks, seeking together, as it seemed most 
natural to them, the genial rays of the early spring 
sunshine. On one occasion, when they had been over 
into the glade, where late the September before 
Barbara and the Lieutenant had spent the last after- 
noon of his stay in the valley, when they had returned 
to the great vine-covered tree, not yet in full foliage, 
Barbara had fallen into one of her old-time moods, 
brought on, no doubt, from the thoughts that would 
most naturally come from such a trip. After study- 
ing her for some moments, Jannice said to her: 

“Barbara, dear, let me as your very best friend say 
something to you, and have it taken as it is meant. 
Through all the weary months that have dragged 
their slow lengths along, you have been trying to hold 
in your heart a holy memory; trying bravely to sus- 
tain yourself alone. Now, do it no longer. We all 
guess your secret; we all know it; and in our love for 
you have tried, in various ways, to cheer you up. But 
you have gone on, hugging a great emotion to your 
bosom, in an endeavor to keep it out of sight, and to 
yourself ; trying to keep us, your friends, in ignorance 
of your grief. It is time now that you stopped this. 


218 


BARBARA 


To-day lay off this burden of secrecy, give it up to us, 
to me, and realize what a relief it will give you, when 
we can sympathize with you. Do you doubt my hon- 
est love for you, Barbara?” 

This was said as they sat on the log, beneath the 
vine, where often Barbara and the Lieutenant had sat 
and let a love grow strong that now was really making 
both miserable, as lovers are wont to do when far 
apart, yet cherish a misery they seem to enjoy. Bar- 
bara had sat in silence for some time, her hands rest- 
ing in her lap, and clasping a great cluster of wild 
flowers, a part of those they had gathered. Sat, 
statue-like, looking off, she knew not where, deeply 
absorbed in reveries of a happy yet lonely love; so 
deeply absorbed as to appear not to have heard the 
words of Jannice; and she had uttered the last sentence 
as a sort of final appeal to all she had said before. 

“No, my dear friend Jannice, I do not doubt. I 
know you love me, and indeed, do I love you in turn. ” 

“Then trust me. Believe, Barbara, it is for no 
idle curiosity that I seek the confidence. It is my very 
great friendship that prompts me, and the wish to help 
you bear a burden— your burden of love— for that is 
what is breaking your heart.” 

“Oh, my dear Jannice, 1 do believe in you and 
your sincerity. You are, indeed, my very dear friend, 
and there is no reason why 1 should not trust you 
with my confidence. But for you, my life would 
indeed have been a dreary one the past few months. 
Forgive me, if I have appeared to grow selfish, and 
have tried to live within myself. I shall confide in 
you. ’ ’ 


BARBARA ; 


219 


It may have been wrong. Perhaps not just what 
the belles of social life would have done — sit there 
and reveal to her companion the longings of her heart; 
her doubts and fears; her hopes and anticipations. 
But in her lonely life, friendship and its confidences 
counted for much. It was what she was longing for. 
And when thus appealed to, after a great struggle 
with her feelings — some of languishing hopes, some 
of expectant joys — her great heart secret was given 
up, and she found solace in the consolation offered. 
The friendly words of Jannice, who herself had so 
recently felt the first sharp piercing thrusts of Cupid's 
arrows, were as balm to Barbara’s tired heart. 

She talked again of her rescuing the Lieutenant 
from the Indians; told of how she had cared for him 
at her home ; and how, almost unconsciously, she had 
let him come into her heart. Of how she had tried to 
fight it down, before, and again when he had made 
his pleadings of love to her. She repeated his descrip- 
tion of his home, as he had given it to her, beautiful 
in her imagination ; and of his apparent fondness for 
his mother and sister, all of which had created in her 
mind a sort of hallucination. Told of his placing the 
ring on her finger, and of her having trusted to his 
keeping the only treasure in her possession, her 
medallion. Told her, too, of his pleadings for her 
love, and of how unconsciously she had given it; of 
their parting ; of his letters, full of love and promise. 
And at last, of how she loved him now, and longed, 
day after day, for his return — which to her now seemed 
so remote a possibility. 

“1 cannot help it!” she said, as a finale to all she 


220 


BARBARA: 


had told Jannice. “In spite of all my efforts, he has 
entered into my very being, and has taken possession 
of my every thought I have fought against it all 
until my power of resistance has given out. It has 
been in vain. And now, all that is left me is to try 
and wait, with a patience well worn out, for his return, 
and with the continual fear that the hope may never 
be realized.” 

It may be that another, with more in her life, 
more to attract and occupy her mind, with goings and 
comings, here and there, would not have given up all 
the secrets of her heart, even to so dear a friend, and 
to the same extent. And still, they have been known 
to do so, and to gossip over it as a precious morsel, 
under far more favorable circumstances, with less of 
reason for it. The confession did her good. She felt 
better for having confided in her friend. It was an 
opening of her heart, and it let in a bright ray of sun- 
shine, At the close of her talk, Jannice said: 

“He will return, Barbara. Of that I am sure. 
Does he not say so, even in his last letter? And then 
the ring! It must have been the wedding ring of his 
mother. For he says, in speaking of it in his letter, 
that it was the first gift of his father to his mother. 
Why, Barbara! No man — certainly not one having 
the qualities we all know Lieutenant Beveridge to be 
possessed of — would barter away so sacred a thing as 
his mother’s wedding ring! The love token of his 
mother! Oh, no! He loves you, and her, too much 
for that or to be false to you! Why! What would 
that mother say or think of such a son?” 

“God bless you, Jannice; you do cheer my soul 


BARBARA: 


221 


with your faith. You are a very dear friend; and 1 
am always happier for your consolation. ” 

“And now, listen, fnachere,'' said Jannice. “1, 
too, have a very sweet secret to reveal to you in return 
for your confidence ; and then you may rejoice with 
me. 1 have a letter from my Sergeant, from over in 
the Maumee country, and he tells me he hopes to be 
able to come back in the Sandusky valley soon. He 
is now with the army at Fort Meigs, and says he longs 
for an opportunity to come and see me. Will that not 
be nice, oh, so perfectly lovely, when he does come?” 

“Dear Jannice, I assure you, I hope your most 
cherished dream may be more than realized. If he 
comes, and I hope he will, what a party we shall 
have. ’ ’ 

“Oh, he will come, if the opportunity shall offer! 
He cannot well stay away! And if he and the Lieu- 
tenant should come together! Then, really! What 
should we do?” 

“At least, we should try and make their stay one 
of pleasure. But tell me, Jannice, are you — ? No, 
my dear, I shall not ask the question. Your happy 
face gives me the reply.” 

“Barbara, dear, what is it you would ask? I do 
not understand? I know the Sergeant, he has asked 
me to be his bride, and I do not know what answer I 
shall give him yet. You see, the soldiers — ah, well — 
they are all so very nice. Onl}^, they were so plenty 
but a little while ago; and now, ma chere^ they are all 
gone that we cared for! And it is so very lovely to 
have them as — what is that you call them— a beau. 
It is few there are, here in the valley, that one cares 


222 


BARBARA: 


for; and do you know, I believe 1 love them all — the 
soldiers, I mean ; and especially the Sergeant. He is 
so lovely — so beautiful — in his uniform! And that 
moustache! And he walks so straight — like this:” 

And Jannice strutted off, with her chin up in the 
air, with all the dignity of a drum-major; and then 
went off into a peal of merry laughter, with all those 
Creole attachments of hers, and soon had Barbara as 
merry as herself. 

And with this new bond of friendship formed 
between the two young women, who all their lives had 
been close friends and companions, they thereafter 
reveled in each other’s confidence and little heart 
secrets as they never had before, and found much 
pleasure they otherwise would not have enjoyed if 
they had continued keeping their loves to themselves, 
as some men do — sometimes. 

Barbara and Jannice, soon after their confidential 
talk, wended their ways homeward, and not in some 
time before had both seemed so cheerful. Especially 
was this true of Barbara, who after leaving her com- 
panion at the gate, went up the path to the home, 
humming the sweet carol of a love song: 

“Will you not come to me? You are the star! 

Sweetheart! I wait! Wait for you now!” 

On entering the home, Barbara was surprised to 
find a stranger in the room with Beaumont, one whom 
she knew at a glance was new to the valley, and who 
for some weeks to come proved the bane of her life. 
Both men were engaged in earnest conversation, talk- 
ing in French, and she was well aware of the fact. 


BARBARA : 


223 


from his boisterous manner, that the stranger was 
somewhat under the influence of liquor. When they 
became conscious of her presence their conversation 
ceased, and the two rising from their seats, Beaumont 
said : 

“My dear Barbara (and he, too, now continued in 
French)’, allow me to present you to my friend, Pierre 
Deaugrand. This, Pierre, is my daughter Barbara.” 

“Ah, ma chere, mademoiselle ! to meet you is a great 
pleasure, and so unexpected ; and with so much beauty 
in this place, the surprise is so supreme! Monsieur 
Beaumont, I was not aware that you had so lovely a 
daughter! A.h.\ mon Dieu! One so beautiful should 
not live here in the wilderness.” 

The stranger had taken her proffered hand, and 
was still holding it, in spite of the slight effort she 
had made for its release, which proving useless, she 
replied: 

“I am glad to welcome you to our home, Monsieur 
Deaugrand, as the friend of my father.” 

The Frenchman was most wonderfully profuse in 
his compliments, and they in no way pleased either 
Barbara or the father, who tried to change the trend 
of conversation. Having at last released her hand 
from his grasp, and sitting down, she had a better 
opportunity to regard the man with a closer scrutiny. 
At the first glance he had appeared somewhat repul- 
sive to her; but now, as she gazed at him, he became 
almost offensive. His eyes were small, set close 
together, and of a deep, repressive black, and of that 
peculiar color and appearance as to cause one to feel 
uncomfortable under their steady gaze. He was 


224 


BARBARA : 


short of stature, swarthy of complexion, with stiff, 
bristly hair. In fact, in every particular that Barbara 
could view him, he appeared repugnant to her sensi- 
tive nature. When he had held her hand, he had 
noted the ring on her finger, and glaneing from it to 
her faee, she imagined she saw a scowl sweep over his 
features, and felt a chill run down her back at his 
touch. As soon as it was possible for her to do so, 
without appearing too rude, she retired from the 
room, and going to the mother inquired as to whom 
and what the stranger was. 

“He is someone from Quebec; a gentleman who, 
as I take it from their conversation, knew your father 
long years ago, in France,” replied the mother. 

“In France !” exelaimed Barbara, with some aston- 
ishment. “And indeed, was father Beaumont ever 
there?” 

“Well, my daughter, I should not have said that, 
and you need not let the father know that I spoke of 
it. Perhaps some day he or I may tell you all about 
it ; but not now. ’ ’ 

“But I do not like the man ; he is so disagreea- 
ble, ” continued Barbara. “He looks at me so, he 
makes me afraid. Do you know, is he to stay here, 
with us?” 

“As yet I do not know. Since his arrival he has 
been most busy in conversation. And to tell the 
truth, I do not like his boisterous talk. He assumes 
too mueh for a stranger, and he talks of war, and of a 
force that he says will yet come here from Canada, 
and with the Indians assume control of the valley in 
the name of England.” 


BARBARA: 


226 


During the meal that followed the stranger was 
very verbose, continually endeavoring to shower 
compliments on Barbara, all of them uncalled for and 
much out of place. Nor did it in any way please the 
father, that was certain. 

As soon as the meal was done, Beaumont suggested 
that the two of them take a walk, for he began to see 
the talk of the man was not pleasing to either Bar- 
bara or the wife. And then the Frenchman could not 
let the occasion pass without firing off another sally: 

“If the dear ladies will excuse us for so long, we 
will go; but will return soon, to enjoy their exquisite 
presence.” 

And as no objection was offered by the “dear 
ladies,” there was nothing left for him but to go; and 
as they stepped off the porch, and the gate was heard 
to swing shut, Barbara exclaimed: 

“And if the ‘dear ladies’ could have their way 
about it, one of you would never come back!” 

“Oh, my dear! Do not let the father hear you say 
that! He would not like such rudeness to a guest.” 

“Well, I do not like him. He is so coarse and dis- 
agreeable; and he looks at me so with his little black 
eyes that he makes me shiver!” And she shook her- 
self in imitation of how she felt. 

Contrary to the wishes of both Barbara and the 
mother, the stranger took up his abode with them; 
and what hurt Barbara the most, at the time, was the 
fact that he occupied the same room that was once 
called the Lieutenant’s. In her opinion he profaned 
the place with his presence, and she did not hesitate 
to say so. 

15 


226 


BARBARA; 


Pierre Deaugrand had been at the home several 
days, and was constantly, in his pressing way, impos- 
ing his presence either on Barbara or the mother, 
becoming almost insulting at times, but careful not to 
cross the line beyond decency. Frequently Barbara 
had gone away and sought the company of Jannice; 
then regretted that she had done so, and thus left 
the mother to tolerate the fellow alone. 

That he was growing tedious and tiresome to Beau- 
mont was plainly evident. He was not himself any 
more; became morose, and permitted the guest to do 
all the talking, and that sometimes in such an insinu- 
ating way as to vex the women. His talk was always 
filled in with a grand flourish of his hands and arms, 
and Barbara declared to the mother that it was a real 
surprise to her that he did not also employ his feet 
and limbs for the same purpose. To her he became 
so repulsive as to make his every movement one of 
comment; yet, for the father’s sake, she had not 
shown a rebellious spirit, and the mother lived in the 
fear that it might come at an inopportune time, w’hen 
the father would be present. In every way possible 
Barbara kept out of his presence; for, as she said, she 
could not bear his leering, snake-like looks nor his 
continual brazen compliments. 

She had retired to her room one night, as she had 
often done, to get rid of him, before the father and 
his guest had returned. Since the arrival of Deau- 
grand, Beaumont had stayed out later than was his cus- 
tom, no doubt with a view of relieving the women of 
the man’s presence as much as possible. On one or 
two occasions when they had come in at night Barbara 


BARBARA: 


227 


had declared to the mother that she smelled the per- 
fumes of liquor on the Frenchman, and she wondered 
if it were possible the father had been indulging also. 
They had never known him to do so, although at all 
times they had wine on the table, and of which he 
always partook sparingly — certainly not to excess. On 
this one night referred to, Barbara had been asleep, 
and on awaking she heard voices; and as they were 
near the house was surprised to make out that they 
belonged to Beaumont and the stranger. Listening, 
she heard Beaumont say: 

“Pierre, I tell you this will not do. You must not 
come to my home in such a beastly condition. If you 
want to be a drunken Indian, then you will have to go 
and live with them.” 

“I will, ha!” exclaimed the stranger. “Like one 
grand hell I will! You, Isadore Beaumont, would not 
let me. I might tell them how and what 1 knew of 
you in France. I might tell others, too!” 

“What! You beastly blackguard! Do you threaten 
me with anything like that!” 

“Oh, no! Pierre Deaugrand makes not threats! He 
loves the beautiful daughter too much for that!” 

“Hush! Damn you!” Beaumont exclaimed in an 
excited tone. “Don’t you mention her name, you 
infernal drunkard!” 

“Where did you get her? She is so beautiful. 
And I would so like to make her my wife ” 

“Pierre!” And the voice of Beaumont was in a 
tremble with the rage he was trying to control. 
“Pierre! I have a regard for you and your miserable 
condition, and still more for the memory of your 


228 


BARBARA: 


father; but, damn you, if you talk that way, or if you 
breathe such nonsense to that girl, I will kill you 
before I am aware of what I am doing!” 

‘‘She would be a beauty in Que ” 

The sentence was never finished. Barbara heard a 
swish, and then a rustling noise, as if a heavy body 
was being jerked swiftly about in the air; and then 
she heard a weak, smothered voice whine out : 

‘‘For God’s sake, don’t kill me!” 

‘‘Then, you infernal beast, hold your tongue until 
it learns decency! Go in and to bed, and to-morrow 
I will settle with you ! But, may God help you if I 
hear any more of your damnable talk!” 

Scared as she was, and as she had never been 
before, Barbara snuggled down in bed, and for hours 
lay wondering what it could be that the man dared to 
threaten Beaumont with. At the breakfast table the 
next morning the guest was as suave as ever, polite 
to the extreme, and, save for his florid and bloated 
face, bore no evidence of his debauch. But he stayed 
on, and that worried Barbara. Nor was she alone, for 
it was plain to her that the mother, too, was uneasy. 
If she had heard the conversation alluded to, she kept 
it to herself, and for fear she had not, Barbara said 
nothing to her about it. If both heard it, then both 
were keeping their own counsel. 

With each succeeding day the stranger became 
more repulsive and unbearable to Barbara, and she 
declared to the mother one afternoon that she would 
endure it but little longer. He continually followed her 
if she ventured out of the house; even if she but went 
to see Jannice he begged to accompany her. And in 


BARBARA: 


229 


spite of all the rebuffs she gave him, he would do the 
same thing over at the next opportunit3^ The turn- 
ing point was nearly reached one day, when he fol- 
lowed her to the grape-vine tree, near the river, and 
on his bended knees implored her to marry him and 
go to Quebec. 

You shall be one grand, fine lady, if you become 
my wife ; with not a thing to do but wear fine dresses!” 

When first he began, the thing was so absurd, in 
Barbara s mind, that she let the fellow go on; but 
when he dropped on his knees, and began his fervent 
appeals, in the meantime endeavoring to get hold of 
her hands, his very touch seemed so repulsive to her 
that she cried out: 

“Sir! if you do not cease your incessant nonsense, 

I shall report your conduct tojather Beaumont, and 
he will kill you! If he doesn’t, then I shall! Don’t 
you dare follow me again!” 

“You do not know what is for your own good, my 
dear little Barbara. You go with me! I can keep 
you in the grand style, to be my wife. It is not a 
pleasant home here, for such a lady!” 

Just then, when it seemed to her she could hold 
her indignation -no longer, she saw Bernard coming 
toward them, and as he came up the insolent French- 
man took himself off. For a moment she felt inclined 
to let Bernard carry out his request to deal summary 
justice to the fellow by throwing him in the river, but 
second thought told her that Beaumont might not 
understand it all, and she persuaded Bernard to let 
him go. 

Then, when it was all over, she scarcely knew what 


BARBARA: 


Z30 

to do. Between her fear of Beaumont’s wrath, did 
he once assail the fellow, and the thought that he 
might possess some secret that would work injury to 
the father’s character, she hesitated to tell him of the 
Frenchman’s insistent love-making persecutions. 
Besides, when she was away from him, she could but 
smile at his absurd propositions. They did her no 
real harm, she would say to herself. But she had 
grown to detest the man as well as to fear him. And 
it was hard work for her to conceal her feelings, even 
in the father’s presence. 

“It cannot go on forever,’’ she would say, when 
talking to the mother. “Forbearance will sooner or 
later cease to be a virtue.’’ And after telling of the 
man’s continued persistence, and after having in every 
way imaginable endeavored to rid herself of the nuis- 
ance, in evading him in the home and out, she at last 
declared in a rage of indignation that she would no 
longer tolerate either his sickening flattery nor his 
insulting propositions. 

The climax was at last reached one afternoon as 
she sat on the porch, attending to some of her domes- 
tic affairs. Deaugrand came up to her, and taking 
hold of the garment she was engaged on, with a leer- 
ing remark, attempted to put his arm about her waist, 
and was on the point of forcing a kiss from her. The 
combined blood of her race was at boiling heat in an 
instant. She had no weapon save the large shears, 
which fortunately for her were lying in her lap. 
Seizing them as she arose to prevent the consumma- 
tion of his attempt, she made a desperate thrust at 
the fellow, with the firm intention of killing him if 


BARBARA : 


231 


possible; but instead only the points caught him just 
in front of the ear, tearing a deep cut down across the 
cheek. She saw the blood gush forth, and supposing 
she had accomplished her work, turned and fled into 
the house. 

The Frenchman was not so drunk but that he real- 
ized his danger, and when Barbara flew at him, all 
her usual peaceful and serene disposition gone, look- 
ing as fierce as a caged tigress at bay, ready to kill in 
defense of her honor, the bloated brute fell backward 
off the porch. 

Supposing she had killed him, when she saw him 
fall, and the blood flowing down his neck, she ran into 
the house and exclaimed: 

“Well! I have done what I said I should! I 
believe I have killed him!” 

Stricken with consternation, and almost paralyzed 
with fear for what had possibly been done, the 
mother ran to the porch just in time to see the French- 
man making his way out to the gate, holding his hand to 
his face, the blood streaming down his neck. Relief 
now took possession of her, and turning to call Bar 
bara, met her standing in the door, statue-like, with a 
monster pistol in her hand, her face still livid with 
indignant rage, and a determination to kill the man, if 
she had not already and he still remained on the 
premises! 

“Thank God, Barbara, you did not kill him!” ex- 
claimed the mother. 

1 “My only regret now is that I did not! And I say 
to you now, if that fiend comes back here to-day, or 
at any other time, I shall kill him as surely as I can 


232 


BARBARA : 


reach him ! 1 have endured all it is possible for me 

to put up with; and he must not come here to tempt 
me to commit a crime I shall regret the balance of my 
life!” 

When the father came home the story was told 
him, first by the wife and then by the daughter. 

“What!” he exclaimed, ‘‘has he dared to insult 
you ! The miserable wretch ! That the son of an old 
friend should be so ungrateful! The demon! He 
shall never enter the house again!” 

‘‘But, father Beaumont, what does he know that 
he threatens you with? What does he know of your 
life in France?” asked Barbara. 

‘‘Know of me! Know of my life in France! The 
fool ! Has he dared to say anything to you on such a 
subject?” 

‘‘Not to me, but he has to you; and I was compelled 
to listen to it, the night he came to the house drunk. ’ ’ 

“The dog! Know of me! And my life in France! 
Ouph! Stuff! True, I was a revolutionist! And 
was compelled to leave the country, for political 
reasons! That is all! Nothing to fear or regret in 
that, my daughter! But, the cur! He shall bother 
you no longer!” 

And away he went, in a towering rage, such as 
Barbara had never before seen him indulge. And 
then she regretted she had' told him of the affair at all. 
Why had she not kept it to herself, and worked out 
her own vengeance when next the fellow came to the 
house? Why let someone else get into trouble over 
something that concerned her alone? She and the 
mother sat there in the home, in fear of what would 


BARBARA; 


233 


happen if the two men should chance to meet. It was 
unbearable! And at last Barbara started after him. 

When she reached the top of the hill she was 
greatly relieved to see Beaumont and the priest in 
earnest conversation. Then, feeling that he was in 
safe hands, she returned to the home. Fortunately, 
Beaumont had met Father Jacquese, while making his 
way toward the Fort, and the man of peace, seeing at 
a glance the towering rage Beaumont was in, inquired 
the cause. When told, and Beaumont declared his 
intention of hunting the fellow up and wreaking his 
vengeance on him, the priest said: 

“Now, see here, Beaumont; you are in no reason- 
able condition to meet that man now ; nor is he you. 
For at this very moment he is up at the post, drunk as 
a piper. It is no errand for you to go on now. There 
is a better, and far different way than that, and I want 
you to take it. You go home and leave the whole 
affair to me. Yes, now, but you must!” continued 
the priest, when Beaumont protested and showed a 
disposition not to comply. “You will do a great injury 
to yourself, as well as to your family, if you persist in 
this madness. Go home ; and as your friend, I promise 
to dispose of this bothersome fellow. “ 

It was hard, but the hesitancy, and the words of 
the priest, had resulted in cooling his anger. At last 
he turned toward the home, and left the Reverend 
Father to perform the mission in his stead. Nor was 
it the first time the man who stood as their spiritual 
adviser had settled difficulties for these strange and 
excitable people about him. He had an influence for 
good and for peace, with the worst of them, that they 


234 


BARBARA : 


could not understand. It was too often with them a 
word and a blow ; and not unfrequently the blow came 
first, and then with a sharp-pointed knife. The priest 
knew but too well what it would mean to allow Beau- 
mont, in his rage, to come in contact with the drunken 
Frenchman, and that he himself could best perform 
the work. Too long had he pleaded with these rough 
people to peacefully stand by and permit them to 
come in collision with each other if it was in his power 
to prevent it. And so to-night he again assumed the 
aggressive for a man he knew to be too honorable and 
useful to be permitted, in his present temper, to attempt 
to carry out his designs, which in the end meant the 
commission of a crime. 

It was late when Pierre Deaugrand came stagger- 
ing along on his way past the mission house, toward 
the home of the trader, and was met by the priest. 

“Where are you going at so late an hour, my son?“ 
inquired the Reverend Father, as he put out his hand 
and laid it on the shoulder of the besotted man. 

“To hell for all of you! You long-robed devil !’’ 
was the reply, as he attempted to stagger by on his 
way. 

“Possibly that is true; but let me advise you not to 
go to the home of the Beaumonts, or you will think 
you have arrived at your destination sooner than you 
had intended. Turn about, and seek a shelter else- 
where — with the wild beasts of the West, if you 
choose ; for with them will you be as safe as with the 
Beaumonts. You have persisted in your maudlin 
love-making to his daughter until, if you go there to- 
night, your life will not be worth the reckoning.” 


BARBARA : 


235 


“The damned traitor! Does he want me to expose 
him!” almost shrieked the excited man. 

“Little does he care for you or your exposes; only 
the insults that have been forced on them. Indeed, 
my son, there will not be enough of you left to expose 
to view if you go there to-night. Take my advice. 
Return — retrace your steps. Go anywhere but there; 
not n.ow, nor at any time in the future. You have 
made a fool of yourself ; have turned a friend into a 
most bitter enemy, and may the good Lord keep you 
out of his way. Now, go. “ 

And taking firm hold of the man, he turned him 
about and started him on his way toward the Fort. 
Where he went, the priest was not anxious to know ; 
but it was not to the Beaumonts — of that he was sure. 
The fellow hung about the vicinity for a short time 
longer, becoming a general nuisance ; and finally, one 
day late in June, he was loaded on a boat bound 
down the river and for the Detroit region, with the 
furs of a lot of trappers; and that was the last seen of 
him about Lower Sandusky, It was believed after- 
ward that he was in the employ of Proctor, the 
English general, and that he had come apparently for 
a visit with Beaumont, but that his real business was 
to learn all he could concerning the newly constructed 
fort. If he were a British spy, then his drunken con- 
dition must have kept him from learning much, or 
else there was nothing of benefit in his report. Once 
after, when Beaumont was down toward Detroit, he 
saw the fellow, and he came very near playing the 
trader off on the Canadian authorities as a spy. 

As for Barbara, while the fellow was about, she 


236 


BARBARA : 


scarcci/ ventured out of the house. And when she did, 
it was with the avowal that if the man met and 
molested her she would kill him as she would a snake. 
Her blood was aroused; she had been imposed on, in 
her desire to treat a friend of Beaumont’s with com- 
mon courtesy. All the time, however, she was persist- 
ent in her declarations that the father must not inter- 
fere in the affair, but must leave it to her to settle, in 
case the opportunity should again occur. Fortunately 
for them both, they never met afterward, and it was 
left for the foster father to suffer at the hands of the 
Frenchman, when months after they chanced to come 
together. 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN. 


“There was a rumor on the streets, 

In the houses there was fear 
Of the coming of the fleet, 

And the danger drawing near.” 

— Longfellow. 


With the opening of the spring of 1813, there was 
a great renewal of activity in military circles, and 
from the movements of the troops, all through the 
upper part of the territory, toward Cincinnati, it 
was plainly evident that the Sandusky valley and 
the Maumee country were to be the scenes of an 
impending conflict. During the winter months, Har- 
rison had found it almost impossible, most of the time, 
to move either troops or supplies; and with the 
exception of the army about the Detroit country, 
nothing had been attempted looking toward a con- 
flict. What little had been undertaken had proven a 
most serious disaster to the troops under General 
Winchester, who, either from a lack of judgment or 
the want of proper support, was compelled to surren- 
der his command to the forces under the English Gen- 
eral Proctor. This had once more rekindled in the 

237 


238 


BARBARA: 


breast of the savage warrior, Tecumtha, a desire to 
renew his conquests with the Americans for the pos- 
session of the Northwest, especially of the two valleys. 

Throughout the winter, General Harrison had 
remained with his headquarters at Chillicothe, where 
he had gone from Fort Stephenson late in January, 
and only at intervals had he visited any portion of the 
country down toward Lake Erie. Fort Meigs, he had 
said, was in competent hands. General Clay, then in 
command at that point, had proven his ability for 
coping with the Indians, hence, so far as that position 
was concerned, Harrison had no uneasiness. The 
results were that he began preparing to repel attacks 
at other and less defensible places. 

Early in May, he started for Fort Stephenson from 
Chillicothe, with an escort of cavalry, under command 
of Major Ball. On his way, and before he had reached 
the Fort, he met Governor Meigs marching toward 
the Maumee valley, with a large force of Ohio volun- 
teers. The Governor had begun growing uneasy for 
the safety of the settlers, since the surrender of Gen- 
eral Winchester, and not liking the slowness of Har- 
rison, had decided to assume command of the volun- 
teer forces, and form a defense for the settlers. But 
the General himself could see no use for the troops, 
at that time at least, as he asserted there was no 
threatening danger. After much argument between 
himself and the Governor, in which much bitterness 
of feeling was engendered, Harrison persuaded the 
Governor to consider the situation in the same light as 
he did; and the result was, the men were disbanded 
and sent back to their homes. Of course, this did not 


BARBARA: 


239 


please the Governor nor the men ; but there was no 
appeal from the General’s decision. After the volun- 
teers had been permitted to remain in camp for a time, 
long enough to draw a month’s pay, they were 
marched back across the country, disbanded, and 
returned to their homes. The General, in an address 
to them, complimented them on their promptness in 
responding to the call of the Governor, and advised 
them to hold themselves in readiness for the time 
when their services might be needed. For all that, 
it left a bitter feeling in the minds of the men who 
had volunteered their services, and it was years before 
the circumstance and the disappointments were for- 
gotten. 

Everywhere throughout the Ohio territory, and 
more especially in the Sandusky and Maumee valleys, 
settlers were alive and alert over the situation. The 
surrenders of Hull and Winchester, when their forces 
had reached a point where it had always been hoped 
substantial success was certain, had spread a gloomy 
feeling throughout the entire territory. It had stim- 
ulated the Indians, and all sorts of depredations had 
been committed through the winter. The conse- 
quences were, the people were crying for revenge. 
They somehow felt sure that the next disaster might 
fall much nearer their own homes, especially if an 
invading army should once gain a foothold in the lower 
parts of the valleys. There was much discourage- 
ment everywhere. Knowing that this feeling pre- 
vailed to a very great extent. General Harrison set 
out early in the spring with the view of strengthening 
the confidences of the people, as well as the defenses 


240 


BARBARA; 


at Fort Stephenson and other places along the south 
shores of Lake Erie. 

When the Commander was at Lower Sandusky that 
spring, giving orders for the further completion of the 
work about the Fort, so recently finished, Beaumont, 
among others, called on him and offered his services 
in any case where they might be required. The trader 
was also able to give him some valuable information 
concerning Proctor and his designs. This knowledge 
he had gathered through the winter, either when 
he had business transactions with other dealers near 
Detroit and Malden, or by his own observations while 
in that region himself. The next day after this 
conversation with the trader, Harrison sent for him, 
and arranged that under certain conditions he should 
ask him to do some scout work, should the enemy 
attempt to come up the Sandusky river. 

While these events were transpiring in the North- 
west, and the army was being thoroughly reorganized 
for an active campaign, Richard M. Johnson, then 
a member of Congress from Kentucky, who had 
been with Harrison in the troubles with the Indians 
in i8ii, was making preparations himself to take a 
hand in the coming conflict. After having obtained 
the consent of the Secretary of War to his project, he 
returned to his home State, and proceeded to recruit 
a full regiment of mounted men, to co-operate with 
Harrison throughout the Northwest. He had been so 
favorably impressed with that branch of the service 
in the preceding campaigns, that he had no doubt but 
they would be acceptable to the General, and was 
greatly nonplussed when he learned differently. 


FORT STEPHENSON AS COMPLETED IN 1813. 



16 








242 


BARBARA ; 


Johnson s ideas were to have these mounted troopers 
scout the whole country round about the vicinity of 
Fort Wayne, and farther west if practicable and 
necessary, and drive the Indians down into the lower 
country, and to then force them back and over into 
Canada. These plans, however, did not meet with 
Harrison’s approval, and he proceeded to intercept the 
movement; and it looked for a time as if Johnson 
would be thwarted in his attempted mission. 

Instantly on hearing of Johnson’s intentions. Lieu- 
tenant Beveridge began recruiting for a company in 
the vicinity of Lexington, and at once wrote to John- 
son, tendering his services and those of the men he 
might enroll. In reply, Johnson notified Beveridge 
that when he was ready, to report himself and com- 
mand at or near Newport, Kentucky, where the whole 
regiment wbuld rendezvous, for organization and drill. 
It was at this point, when there were many men 
enrolled, that Harrison interfered, and for a time put 
a stop to the whole plan. But Johnson called on the 
Commander in person, and after a long and earnest 
conversation, and after agreeing that the men should 
be recruited for the regular service, and be under the 
immediate command of Harrison himself, he at last 
succeeded in convincing the General of the wisdom of 
the movement, obtained his consent, and proceeded to 
complete the organization of the regiment. 

The partial recovery of Lieutenant Beveridge’s 
father, the excellent results he had been able to bring 
about in the affairs of the plantation, and his earnest 
desire to again enter the army, soon secured the con- 
sent of his people; and when he had obtained a cer- 


BARBARA : 


243 


tain quota of men, with many a “good-bye, ” and a 
“God bless you," from father, mother and sister, the 
Lieutenant left home for the place designated, filled 
with great hope. His heart was buoyant and full of 
the happy anticipations of youth. He was never more 
confident than now that in some way, as a soldier, the 
pendulum of time and warfare would once more 
enable him to be of service to his country, and at the 
same time carry him down into the Sandusky valley, 
and to Fort Stephenson. 

Once the regiment was fully recruited, organized 
into companies, and officered, it was marched to near 
Dayton and went into camp. From there, contrary 
to all of Johnson’s expectations, it was ordered to 
patrol the country down toward Detroit. Then, after 
a month spent in and about that region, the entire 
command was ordered back to do service with the 
army in the valleys. 

During all this time Fort Stephenson was being 
garrisoned by a small number of soldiers, detailed 
from the various commands that had quartered there 
at various times through the winter. Among the lot 
was an artillery squad with a six-pound iron cannon, 
and they with but a non-commissioned officer in com- 
mand. They, with the others at the Fort, were kept 
busy most of their time repairing and strengthening the 
defenses in various ways; but at last, when the crucial 
hours came, it did seem as if it had all been to no pur- 
pose — or at .least, that was the opinion of the General 
himself. 

In July, General Clay sent word to General Har- 
rison, who was then at Franklinton, and to Governor 


244 


BARBARA : 


Meigs, at Chillicothe, that he was expecting an invad- 
ing force of nearly four thousand Indians and about 
six hundred British regulars to make an attack on his 
position, or somewhere else in the Northwest, almost 
any time. This was the force under the Indian 
Tecumtha, and the British General Proctor. The 
information which Clay -syas acting upon was about 
the same as that given to Harrison by Beaumont some 
weeks before, and to the effect that either Fort Meigs 
or Fort Stephenson, and possibly both, would be con- 
sidered objective points when the campaign was once 
more opened in that region. 

On receiving this information from Clay, Harrison 
at once ordered the Twenty-Fourth Regiment, under 
command of Colonel Anderson, and a part of the Sev- 
enteenth Regiment, both of the United States Infantry, 
the latter in command of Major George Croghan, to 
proceed toward Fort Stephenson; he still, apparently, 
believing that was the point to be assailed. 

On the 2oth of that month. General Harrison 
started for the same place, with an escort of cavalry 
•commanded by Colonel Ball. On the wa}^ he was met, 
far up the country, by scouts in command of Lieuten- 
ant Beveridge, with the information, in specials from 
General Clay, that the Indians and British were 
reported to be at the lower bay of the Maumee, and 
that an attack was looked for at any hour. The Gen- 
eral ordered the Lieutenant to retrace his steps at once 
and notify Clay that a sufficient number of troops were 
then on their way, and would reach him as soon as 
they could march across the country. Then he sent 
one of his own couriers to intercept Colonel Anderson 


BARBARA : 


245 


and his regiment, and directed him to march toward 
the Maumee instead of Fort Stephenson, while Major 
Croghan should continue on toward Lower Sandusky. 
The General himself started across toward Fort Meigs. 

In accordance with orders, Major Croghan pro- 
ceeded on his way to Fort Stephenson. His command 
was a small one, composed of parts of three companies, 
most of them volunteers from Kentucky; nearly all 
young men, and known as Kentucky sharp-shooters. 

The Major had never been in the vicinity before. 
He had seen but little or no actual service ; but he 
came of a family whose record as fighters was unsur- 
passed. A nephew of the famous Colonel Clark, he 
was a safe man into whose hands any sort of a peril- 
ous undertaking might with safety be intrusted. And 
when General Harrison ordered him tb proceed on to 
the Lower Sandusky, it was without a thought but 
that he would reach the place in safety, and once 
there, would stay, no matter what issue might come 
up to confront him. 

The detachment reached the Fort late at night, 
after a long, tedious march from near Chillicothe, 
made in July weather. He found a small force in 
possession of the stockade, composed of the gun-squad 
referred to, and that practically in command of Pri- 
vate Brown. They had been there since the winter 
before, and had devoted their entire time to gun- 
squad drill. The result was, when they were 
reviewed the next day, they showed the Major a skill 
in gunnery he had never before witnessed. 

The march had been made to the Fort along the 
trail from Seneca Town, down through the present 


246 


BARBARA: 


site of Ballville, and into the stockade from the 
southwest. The consequences were, the settlers were 
not aware of their presence until they awoke the next 
morning and saw a new American flag flying from 
the peak of the flag-staff. 

Lieutenant Beveridge, with his company, on the 
return from the Detroit country, had been first assigned 
to duty up the Maumee, above Fort Defiance; but 
when affairs began assuming an active shape, he was 
ordered back for service under General Clay. Grad- 
ually, he felt, he was nearing the goal of all his ambi- 
tion; but it was extremely slow, and at times he 
almost gave up all courage and hope. When he was 
sent to meet General Harrison he wished with all his 
heart that before he was ordered back he might be 
sent toward Fort Stephenson. His orders from the 
General, however, were so explicit for his immediate 
return to Fort Meigs, that he lost that chance, the 
first, he said, he had had in many months. It was a 
sad discouragement to all his cherished hopes. 

Before leaving Fort Winchester to go to Fort 
Meigs, all unexpectedly, he one day ran onto Lone 
Arrow, and never before in his life had he been so glad 
to see an Indian as then. Each greeted the other like 
old acquaintances, with a hearty handshake, and a 
“How!” “How!” But when Beveridge began mak- 
ing inquiries about the people in the valley, and about 
the Beaumonts in particular, he was sadly disappointed 
at being told that he had not seen any of them in 
weeks. To his questionings, the Lieutenant obtained 
no satisfactory answers. The Indian had no informa- 
tion to give. That did not satisfy Beveridge, however. 


BARBARA : 


247 


He thought the old guide should be loaded down with 
knowledge of Barbara and the Beaumonts, whether 
he had seen them or not. And, in his disappointment, 
he felt as if it would be a 'pleasure to give his old 
friend, Lone Arrow, a good hammering. But he 
wisely refrained, and instead exerted his energies in 
further efforts to pump some sort of information out of 
him. He gave it up at last as a hopeless task, and 
then decided to entrust a message to him which he 
was to deliver to Barbara, if by any chance he should 
go back into the Lower Sandusky country in the near 
future. But he had grave doubts of its ever being 
delivered to her. The trouble was, the Lieutenant 
was losing all his patience in his long waiting. 

Through June and July Beveridge was almost con- 
stantly on duty. He had requested it, and was never 
so happy as when being sent out on some reconnoiter- 
ing expedition or scout service — always hoping that 
before his return to camp he would reach the San- 
dusky valley. At last, one evening when he had not 
been thinking of it, nor just then expecting such a 
pleasure, he was summoned to General Clay’s head- 
quarters, and informed that the service he had been 
longing for was now at hand. He was directed to ride 
across the country, and into the Sandusky valley, with 
important dispatches, to be delivered to General Har- 
rison at Seneca Town. 

If he had been filled with hope and expectancy 
before, it was as nothing compared to what he now 
experienced. His heart was full of a feeling he found 
it impossible to express in words. He could scarcely 
believe it to be true, and was fearful that something 


248 


BARBARA : 


might possibly transpire to deprive him of the pleasure 
of his whole lifetime. The desire of months, and of 
his whole being, was about to be accomplished and 
realized; and he hardly knew how to contain himself. 

Would he be able to see Barbara? Would she be 
the same to him? From September to July! It was 
a long time ! Almost ten months now ! In that inter- 
val many things might have transpired ; many changes 
may have taken place. No matter now, he said to 
himself, after summing it all up. It will soon end! 
For if once he ever got over into the valley, it would 
have to be a pretty stringent military order that would 
prevent him from taking the time to see her! And 
he felt sure she would be glad to see him ! But, sup- 
pose she would not! And his heart stood still for an 
instant. And then he called to mind her letters. 
They would not lead him to think so ! But it had been 
so long a time, surely! His thoughts were feverish, 
and he could scarcely sleep through the night, so 
rapidly did his imaginings come and go. And as for 
eating, that eventful morning of his start, why, that 
was out of the question. 

His instructions were given him late that night ; 
the dispatches he received very early in the morning, 
just as he was ready to mount and ride away — on an 
errand he had wished for since he left the old home in 
Kentucky. He was to proceed with his detachment 
directly to Seneca Town ; there to report and deliver 
his dispatches to General Harrison. Part of the troop- 
ers would return at once to Fort Meigs ; the balance, 
with the Lieutenant, would proceed down the stream 
to Fort Stephenson. From the latter place they were 


BARBARA : 


249 


to scout the country back to the Maumee. All this 
was, of course, subject to any orders that might be 
given on their arrival at Seneca Town, from General 
Harrison, or from Major Croghan, on reaching Fort 
Stephenson. 

Properly equipped for the journey, they rode away 
in the first gray tints of the morning, the Lieutenant 
with a heart so full of joyous feelings as to make him 
consider every man his brother, and the whole world 
his kin. It was a trip he would gladly have under- 
taken, after he had received his private instructions, 
if he had known that every step of the way was filled 
with unknown and untried dangers. And indeed,. so 
completely absorbed was he with the final results of 
his visit (for he had lost sight of the idea that he was 
on duty), that if he had been left to his own instincts 
and inclinations, he would no doubt have gone round 
and round, and at last have brought up at the Fort 
again, without having gotten ten miles away all day. 
Fortunately for him, he had a guide whose mind wa» 
not troubled with such thoughts, and the journey was 
made all right and in good time. 

While on their way through the forest, they crossed 
the same trail that the Lieutenant and Lone Arrow 
had traveled some months before, and when it was 
pointed out by the guide as the one leading over to 
the Auglaize, above Fort Defiance, Beveridge fell into 
a reverie of thoughts, both pleasant and disagreeable. 
If his route would only take him that way now, back 
to the valley, how much more pleasant it would seem ^ 
than when he went over it before. And how long it 
had been since he and the Indian had passed that way ; 


250 


BARBARA : 


and how much had happened. Since then winter had 
come and gone. He had left the army; had spent 
long, dreary months at home; months that had been 
filled with anxious waiting — happy in a measure with 
his people, yet filled with longings his soul had never 
known before; waiting for a time when he should 
again be back in this very country through which he 
was now passing. And here he was; in the army 
again ; with duty calling him so near the goal of all 
his desires — and yet he must go on. His great fear 
was, that on his arrival at Seneca Town, only nine 
miles up the river from Old Lower Sandusky, orders 
might compel him to turn about and retrace his steps 
to the Maumee, without his being able to see Barbara. 

Well, he said to himself as he sat there musing, in 
that event he would crave the privilege of going by 
the way of Fort Stephenson. And, if it were refused 
— ! Oh, then he would go that way, in spite of orders, 
and let the consequences be whatever they might! He 
would see Barbara. That he was determined on. 
And no power that he knew anything about should 
prevent it. 

He was finally called back to himself, after he had 
sat in the saddle and pondered thus, he knew not how 
long, by one of the troopers saying to him : 

“Well, Lieutenant, shall we unsaddle and feed 
here?” 

“N — o! I guess not. I was only thinking of a 
time, now almost ten months ago, when myself and 
an Indian guide passed through this forest, on a trip 
that to me was the loneliest and most unpleasant 1 had 
ever endured, and the like of which I hope I may 


BARBARA : 


251 


never have to take agfain. Some two weeks before I 
had been down in the Sandusky valley on a recon- 
noitering expedition; had been wounded, almost cap- 
tured — was, in a measure, and have never since 
escaped — and, on my way back to the army, we took 
this route for the Auglaize. It was a most tedious 
journey; and the recollections of it fill me with some 
very peculiar memories. My stay in the valley had 
been more than a pleasant one. I had, fortunately, 
after escaping the Indians, and after having been 
wounded, fallen into the hands of some French people, 
who cared for me in a more than generous way; and 
for two weeks made my life the happiest I had ever 
known. And, you see, when I came to the old trail 
again, that I know if followed would take me back 
direct to their home, and to all that happiness once 
more, why, I was somewhat loath to pass it by without 
at least stopping, and in imagination drop a tear and a 
sigh to the memories of those days that are now away 
in the past. ’ ’ 

“Well, why not take the trail; and from there, 
proceed on to our destination?” asked the guide. 

“Oh! don’t for heaven’s sake tempt me! My 
orders are to ride directly to Seneca Town — then to 
proceed to Fort Stephenson. It is, perhaps, a pleasure 
deferred for a day only. Yet, when we come to the 
path that leads from duty to pleasure — that takes us 
past the vine of ripened fruit, expecting to return 
afterward and enjoy it, why, we cannot help but stop 
and contemplate.” 

“Yes; but the ripened fruit, and the pleasures 
anticipated, will be all the more appreciable when at 


252 


BARBARA: 


last obtained; even after the long wait, and tedious 
journey.” 

“Possibly that is all true enough; yet the doubts 
that are born of our own unknown being, that per- 
chance duty, or something else, may at last compel 
us to go by another and an unknown way, and that 
in the end the pleasures, or the ripened fruit, may 
have been enjoyed by others, are what caused me to 
hesitate. But there is where the duties of the soldier 
come in; and all that is left for us to do is to go on.” 

It was a long and weary, ride the troopers made 
that day, and when at last the headquarters of Gen- 
eral Harrison were reached, every one of them was 
contented to take a good night’s rest. 

The departure of Lone Arrow from the Fort on the 
Maumee was all unknown to the Lieutenant. He had 
been gone several days before he was missed, and 
then there was no one aware of his destination except 
the General, who had sent him on an errand down 
toward the headwaters of the Lake, with instructions 
to ascertain, if possible, the exact intentions of the 
invading army then lying in that region. The Indian 
had gone, as usual, without saying a word to any one. 
Like all his tribe, he was capable of keeping his own 
counsel. The uncommunicative disposition that 
Lieutenant Beveridge had discovered in him was as 
natural to him as were all his other Indian instincts. 
To know things, and possibly understand them as 
well, if not better, than his white brother, was a part 
of his nature; and to know them, and keep them to 
himself, was another one of the traits of character he 
was really not to blame for. When asked to perform 


BARBARA : 


253 


a duty, he at once set about it without words with 
anyone, and performed the task. 

On this occasion the Indian had gone down the 
Maumee, under orders of the General himself, and 
although Beveridge may have been present at the 
time, Lone Arrow possibly saw no reason in his own 
mind why he should inform his old friend of his 
deiDarture. He took himself off in his own mysterious 
way ; had gone down toward the bay, and there had 
fallen in with some of his own tribe, and through them 
learned all that it was possible for him or anyone else 
to ascertain — that an attack would sooner or later be 
made on Fort Meigs, in some form not then known. 
Then, returning, he reported to General Clay, and 
from there took his way across the country toward 
Lower Sandusky. 

He had been there but a day or so when he pre- 
sented himself at the Beaumont home, to find that 
Beaumont himself was absent, and had been for some, 
little time, on a business trip down the river and 
toward Detroit. The mother and Barbara were both 
glad to see the Indian, for he had not visited them in 
some time, and because they were more than sure that 
he must be possessed of some sort of news. Besides, 
the husband and father had been absent longer than 
had been expected, and any one, a friend of the 
family, would be made welcome. After they had sup- 
plied the Indian with a good meal, the mother and 
daughter set about in a cautious way, plying him with 
questions concerning the movements of the army, and 
then to ascertain if he were aware of the whereabouts 
of Beaumont; or wlxatever of information he might be 


254 


BARBARA: 


possessed of, in the shape of army news. To them his 
taciturn nature was so well understood that it was no 
longer annoying. They knew that time and patience 
were all that were necessary to obtain from him what- 
ever of intelligence he might have, that they would 
care to know. It was only by slow degrees that Bar- 
bara at last succeeded in getting him to say he had 
seen Lieutenant Beveridge; and that he was then at 
Fort Winchester, up on the Auglaize. This informa- 
tion set her all aglow with anxiety, for she felt that 
if he were there it certainly could not be long until 
the general trend of affairs would bring him still 
closer. 

“What did the Lieutenant have to say?” she 
inquired, in a careless way — just as if the Indian 
could or would be able to repeat all the inquiries that 
the anxious Lieutenant had plied him with. It is 
doubtful if an intelligent white man could have done 
that. But it brightened his memory, apparently, for 
he began fumbling about in the folds of his garments, 
and from somewhere brought forth the missive the 
Lieutenant had given him some three weeks before, 
when they met up the river from Fort Meigs. Then, 
having obtained all her heart could expect, she left 
Lone Arrow to the mother, while she hurried into the 
house and by herself to read a message of love, every 
word of which removed a burden from her heart. It 
was blurred and dim, from long handling by the 
Indian; yet every letter was as legible to her mind, 
almost, as if he had spoken the words himself. In it 
he told her of the partial recovery of his father, and 
of the great and earnest love the mother had expressed 


BARBARA : 


256 


for her. He told as much of his present army life as 
he imagined would interest her. Then he said: 

“I still retain possession of your tokens, dear Bar- 
bara, and only long for, and patiently await, the time 
when 1 may fold you in my arms and give you an 
opportunity to redeem it. It is all I have that was 
yours, unless it be your love ; and the possession of 
the one, and the hope for the other, have kept alive in 
my bosom an earnest, undying affection for you, the 
one sweet being, who is more dear to me than all my 
past, present, and future existence; the one dear soul 
who fills to overflowing all the aspirations for my 
future life, and all its happiness. The keeping of that 
token has inspired in me a love that consumes with 
its desires — a love that has never for a single instant 
departed from my mind since the hour I left you, in 
the low gloaming of that summer evening, now, to 
me, so long ago.” 

It contained a promise — an assuring hope — that 
now, since he was once more in the army, and so near, 
that ere many days the chances of war, with all its 
stern duties, would carry him over into the valley, and 
for a season, at least, permit him to revel in the sun- 
shine of her smiles and joys! It was full of his heart’s 
longings; and it supplied, for the time being, all the 
anxieties of her earnest hopes. It gave to Barbara as 
much of joy and happiness as did the order given to 
' the Lieutenant to prepare for a ride over into the San- 
dusky valley, and it had come almost as unexpectedly 
to her as the order had to him. Although of that good 
fortune of his, the letter contained not a word, as it 
had been written while up the river from Fort Meigs, 
and some time before either he or the Indian had 
joined the forces under General Clay. 


256 


BARBARA : 


It was all too good news to keep. It filled her 
young and anxious heart afresh with the love she had 
held within her soul through all the weary months of 
winter and spring, and set her all afresh with expect- 
ancy and anticipation, for the hour when once more 
she could look into the face of the one man of all on 
earth, for whom she had ever felt a woman’s pure and 
holy love. 

She went flying to her friend Jannice at the first 
opportunity, and in the happiest of moods gave her 
the contents of the letter she had received, and fairly 
bubbled over with the thought that soon he would be 
with them once more. It was, indeed, a happy day 
for Barbara; and if Lone Arrow had not been an 
Indian she would have felt very much like embracing 
him for the missive of love he had been the bearer of. 
As it was, she contented herself in showing him her 
appreciation in the hospitality she bestowed upon 
him. 

The foster mother, too, was happy with the delight 
she saw expressed in her daughter Barbara. She, 
with the rest, had noted all through the winter the 
gloomy despondency of her former happy nature, and 
was not slow in guessing the cause. With her Bar- 
bara’s happiness had always been the first considera- 
tion. She had noted, too, her cheerful spirits when 
these messages would come to them, almost from out 
of the darkness, and although only foster mother as 
she was, she knew that these marked changes told but 
too well the merging of the young and happy girlhood 
into the mature and fully grown woman. And now, 
when this letter came, and filled the daughter with so 


BARBARA : 


257 


much of happiness, the mother, too, was happy, and in 
her French expressions said: 

“It is so very good once again to see the Barbara 
all so happy, when she gets the letter, that if she could 
have one each day it would be very pleasant.” 

And when Barbara had told Jannice of her great 
joy, she was almost as happy as her friend and 
exclaimed: 

“Well! did I not tell you so, that he would come 
again! Oh, my dear Barbara! These men! They do 
so sometimes worry the ones they love! And they do 
not seem to know it! And they, themselves, they 
think they are the ones who suffer! But it is not so. 
They make us to suffer the most. Oh, I know! And 
they do not seem to care, sometimes. But the Lieu- 
tenant. Why, my dear, he is so full of love for you 
that we all can see it! And that is what I so much 
admire. Oh! ma chere, if the Sergeant, too, would 
come, then indeed would I, too, be happy!” 

It was plainly evident from this that the heart of 
the little coquette had at last fallen a victim to Cupid’s 
fascinating sentiment of love; that she was fast grow- 
ing weary with waiting for the return of the Sergeant, 
and that his prolonged absence was weighing heavily 
upon her doubts and fears. 

For days after the receipt of the Lieutenant’s letter 
Barbara was filled with a supreme joy, such as -she 
could express in no other way than as it was shown in 
her intercourse with the people about her. She was 
supremely happy with the anticipation of his coming, 
and her every action displayed the buoyancy of her 
young spirit. 

17 


258 


BARBARA : 


Lone Arrow had a long and serious talk with his 
young braves on this last occasion of his stay with 
them, and before he went away again. His people 
still remained at peace with all about them, and he 
tried to impress them with his belief that it would not 
be long until there would be a possibility of the war 
coming into their own valley; and of the dangers that 
would continually exist from roving bands of hostile 
Indians, even before the struggles should come. And 
while he admonished them to be careful in maintain- 
ing their peace, he as well told them of a duty they 
owed to those about them, who had always shown 
them their friendship by acts and deeds. Above all, 
he asked that they see to it that no danger nor harm 
came to Barbara and her people, more especially from 
these stray bands of Indians. 

One morning in July, soon after Lone Arrow had 
again taken his departure for more active and excit- 
ing fields, the settlers along Glenn creek woke up and 
found a lot of the young braves camped on the banks 
of the river, near their homes; but nothing strange 
was thought of it. They had seen the same thing 
many times before. It was only mentioned as one of 
the passing incidents of their lives ; for it was a cus- 
tom of the Indians, year after year, to wander up and 
down the stream, fishing and hunting; camping here 
and there, at their own sweet will, with no one to 
question their motives or their reasons for doing so. 
So that now, if they were camped on the high bluffs 
at the Blue Banks, or on the low ground near the 
creek, there could be nothing strange in it. 

^ But the truth of the matter was. that when their 


BARBARA : 


259 


young chief had intimated to them that White Flame 
and her people might be in danger at the hands of 
reckless, roving bands, these braves who loved her as 
they did their own squaws, and who remembered all 
the kindnesses of her people toward them and theirs, 
decided that for the present they would be where they 
could readily offer service if it should be needed. 
And to do this, they took up their tepees and pursued 
their fishing and hunting only a little farther up the 
stream. They said nothing to the Beaumonts concern- 
ing their motives; there was no need to. Who would 
think, if they were to be seen about the heights, that 
they were there for any other purpose than their usual 
vocation of fishing? At least, possibly they thought, 
if they are not told, they will not guess. But more 
likely they went about that as Indians generally do, in 
their indolent, indifferent way, and thought very little 
about it in any manner. 

And all through the month of July, when Barbara 
and Jannice were roving up and down the stream, or 
in the nearby woods, it was no rare thing for them to 
see the young braves wandering along the banks as 
well, indifferently engaged, as was their custom. And 
times untold, and all unknown to her, as Barbara sat 
in deep musings, either afloat in her canoe or on the 
banks of the river, dark and dusky faces were peering 
at her through deep tangled bushes, anxiously watch- 
ing to know if she were safe from harm. And espe- 
cially were these precautions most faithfully carried 
out when it was known that strange Indians were 
prowling around anywhere in the valley. Lone Arrow 
himself had done the same thing, time after time, all 


260 


BARBARA : 


through her life, all unknown to her; and now, when 
there were warring factions going here and coming 
there, these Indians determined that if her safety 
could be made more secure by their presence, then 
they would make it so. Their being there was in no 
way marked, by white man nor red, and never a settler 
gave a passing thought to them any more than they 
had in all the years before. 

From time to time the Indians moved their camp 
from place to place; first on this side of the river, and 
then on the other; and in all of it they only managed 
to keep the Beaumont home, and those about them, in 
sight. And it was they who were the last to leave the 
neighborhood when war finally reached the valley. 
Not until they knew for a certainty that Barbara and 
her people were safe elsewhere, did they go back to 
their home — to their own camp. And then, even, it 
was said, a line of communication was kept up, and a 
knowledge of her whereabouts maintained, all through 
the struggle. The tribe had determined that, come 
what might, she should not be harmed. Yet of it all, 
none but they were aware. The Indians preferred 
that what they were doing should remain a secret. 
They were a neutral people, and must not interfere 
with the affairs of others; but in this case, they told 
themselves, they were performing a duty for kindness 
shown them, and they would take the chances of war, 
if it were necessary. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN. 


“Bland as the morning breath of June 
The southwest breezes play; 

Again the mossy earth looks forth: 

Again the streams run gay.” 

— Whittier, 


It was now the dreamy month of July, and all the 
earth in the vallej^ was quivering in the fervent glow of 
the heat and life it gave. June, the month of roses 
and wild flowers, had come and gone. Nature was 
now at its very best. A time when that misty haze 
rises from field and stream, from hill and glen; when 
all find enjoyment in the cooling shade of some great 
spreading tree ; to sit and dream of the past and the 
future. 

It was just such a day as this, full of its heat and 
haze, that had induced Barbara to once more seek her 
old haunts along the banks of the creek and river 
shore. All day long she had felt, she knew not how to 
define it, only that she was possessed with a great 
longing, with an intense desire, after something inex- 
pressible; the feeling that comes to some, if not all, 

261 


262 


BARBARA : 


natures, in this, the fruitive fullness of the year — of 
something wanting — an expectancy — that to her had 
come so often in her life. She wanted to be alone; 
and as she rowed up and down the stream she sang 
over again that melancholy Indian song: 

“Wild do I wander, far in the darkness 
Shines a bright star, far up above. 

Will you not come to me? You are the star! 
Sweetheart, I wait! 

Lost! Lost! in the dark.” 

At last, as if exhausted, as if all had failed to satisfy 
her, she pushed the canoe ashore, and listlessly seated 
herself beneath the old grape-vine’s welcome shade. 
How long she sat there, lost in a pleasant reverie of 
her life, its surroundings, and of the Lieutenant, and 
his possible whereabouts, she never knew. Perhaps 
but a few moments; possibly an hour. At last with a 
half suppressed sigh, she again gave vent to her 
thoughts in the old song she had but so recently sang, 
and that so continually came into her thoughts: 

“Will you not come to me? You are the star! 

Sweetheart, I wait! 

Wait for you now!" 

Then, when she arose to go, not a rod from her 
she saw approaching, a tall, tawny-faced man, clad in 
the full uniform of a cavalry officer of the United 
States army. As he advanced toward her, the color 
left her face, a chill crept through her whole being, 
and she seemed rooted to the spot, with no power to 
move; became almost a living statue. She could not 
speak, although she tried her best to do so. She saw 


BARBARA : 


263 


two hands held out toward her, and heard a voice, as 
if from away off : 

“Why, Barbara, my dear! Do you not know me? 
Am I, indeed, so changed that I frighten you? Bar- 
bara !” 

What else, she could never tell. She felt herself 
going! going! All was so strange ! And then a mist 
came over her mind. Two strong arms, she knew, 
were clasped about her waist — and then her eyes 
closed in bewildering thoughts. 

It appeared to her an hour. To Beveridge it was 
but a few seconds. As he held her thus in his arms — 
(all his own for the moment, if never before or again) 
— unknown to her, he pressed her still closer to his 
breast, and on her full rounded and half open lips he 
printed his kiss of love — the kiss of an ardent Ken- 
tucky lover, full of passion — full of his earnest, 
anxious affection; murmuring to himself: 

“My Barbara!” 

Slowly her eyes began to open, full of wonder and 
surprise. And as their gazes met, she beheld the 
familiar features of him — now so full of his manly love 
— whom she had so longed for. His face was so close 
to hers that she felt his warm breath upon her cheek. 
Putting an arm on his shoulder, for better support, 
she could only say : 

“It is you, in truth, my Lieutenant!” 

That was all ! But it was enough ! And the Lieu- 
tenant could not have asked for more. Holding her 
thus, close to his bosom, the temptation was too great, 
and again as she spoke he drew her still closer to him, 
and once more, printed full upon her open lips a kiss 


264 


BARBARA : 


that she in return gave back to him, as full of love as 
was his own. 

All his months of longings, he felt, were over. In 
that supreme moment he had forgotten everything, in 
the ecstasy of his joy and happiness. He then gently 
led her back to the seat she had so lately vacated, and 
sitting down beside her took both her hands in his 
own. 

“Truly, it is I, Barbara, come to claim my own. 
Come, as I promised, in the now seeming long ago. 
Come to return to you, if you so desire, the token you 
gave me at our parting, and (with a pleading look 
that denied what he said) take back the one 1 gave to 
you.” 

“The one I intrusted to you will I receive back; 
but the one you gave me, and placed on my finger, I 
do not care to part with it. Unless (and she withdrew 
her hand from his for the moment and looked at the 
ring), unless the mother demands it, or you shall 
ask it.” 

“Neither do I ask it nor the mother desire its 
return. It is yours, Barbara. Not from myself alone, 
but from the mother, who with it gives her love and a 
blessing. In her far-away Kentucky home, she awaits 
not only my return, but your coming. It is my wish, 
as well as hers, dear Barbara, that you wear it unto 
the day when you are my wife, and she shall call you 
her daughter. May it not be so? May I not, dear 
Barbara, now take away with me your promise to be 
my bride?” 

“Lieutenant Beveridge, if you could know the 
longings for your return; if you have counted the 


BARBARA : 


265 


hours, days, weeks, and months, as I have, here, 
almost alone, in my valley home, your question will 
need no answer. ” 

“Why to me, Barbara dear, our separation has 
been as an eternity, almost. With the opening and 
closing of each day, you have been my sole desire, my 
only love, my only hope on earth. Every moment, all 
the days and all the months, has my love gone out to 
you, alone here in the valley. Only real honest, stern 
duty kept me away. -That alone prevented me from 
penetrating the depths of an unknown wilderness to 
reach your side, and tell you of my continual love and 
devotion. To be with you, if but for a moment, to 
assure you I had not forgotten you, or my promises! 
To meet you once again, and sitting thus say to you, 
‘Barbara, I love you, now and forever,’ and to ask, 
‘Will you be mine, now, and forever?’ And now, 
here I am. And the longing is done! But for you, 
my Barbara, I would not now, nor any time hereafter, 
care to wear this uniform. It was your influence that 
inspired me to again enter the army; the hope that it 
would once more take me to your side, so that your 
sweet power might once more engulf me in a whirl- 
pool of joy and supreme happiness. And now that 1 
am here, at your side, all the longings of my life, with 
all their desires, appear to be supplied. My cup of 
contentment can hold no more. I can ask for nothing 
else, my dear Barbara, than the permission to love you. 

“Then, my Lieutenant, as an evidence of my hap- 
piness, and as a fulfilment of my promise, keep my 
token. You have it?” she asked, in a somewhat 
startled tone. 


266 


BARBARA : 


“Have it! Why, Barbara, it has never left my 
presence, not for a moment/’ And drawing it forth, 
he kissed it and laid it and the beads in the hollow of 
her hand. 

She looked at it; turned it over, as she had so often 
done before in her life, when Beveridge was unknown 
— in all the years of her lonely childhood. Then she 
gave it back, saying: 

“It is yours, yet mine. Wear it always. It may 
be a blessing to you yet, as I hoped for so many years 
it would be to me, and as it has. It may yet serve 
some good purpose for us both; and I trust, never 
bring a sorrow to either.’’ 

“Then, indeed, is my happiness complete. From 
now, and forever, you are my Barbara. And in that 
shall the happiness of the mother and the old home 
in Kentucky be made more perfect.’’ 

Again he folded her in his strong arms, and their 
lips met in a long, earnest kiss; a kiss full of love and 
supreme life happiness. For both were most joyously 
happy, and in that stage of love when a kiss, with lips 
to lips, means the melting and commingling of soul 
with soul. 

The veil must needs be dropped, for there are 
scenes all too sacred, to such young hearts, for record- 
ing, even after long years have intervened; and even 
when the life book of all those interested has been 
closed, and they have gone from the active scenes of 
life, and to their great rewards. 

They finally wended their way back to the Beau- 
mont home. His arm was about her waist, for, while 
yet so full of a perfect peace, he feared that by some 



BENEATH THE GRAPE VINE TREE.” 


267 









268 


BARBARA : 


chance he should lose her. They went back to the 
home where he had taught her to love him, and to 
which he had once come in so strange a manner; took 
her into the presence of the foster mother whom he 
had met but an hour or so ago, and then so abruptly 
left to go in search of Barbara. He told her of their 
betrothal, of his great love, and asked her consent and 
a blessing. And she, the mother, in her fondness for 
the foster daughter, wept tears of maternal affection as 
she gave them her hand, and breathed a prayer for 
their happiness, and asked that he protect and cherish 
her unto a happy old age. 

“Oh! if Beaumont were only here to speak,” the 
mother said. “He was gone so very long that I feel 
much alarm! Barbara, she has been our only joy and 
our happiness. The father, he will so regret to give her 
up. She was his great comfort, the same as my own. 
If with you she finds the more of the happiness than we 
can give her, and also that great peace and solace, as 
all the women do, then, you take her, and when the 
father he comes home, he will try and be happy.” 

It would be almost impossible to put in print the 
pathos of the mother’s pleading voice, the sweet mel- 
ody of the French is all so completely lost in the trans- 
lation. In its simplicity, and in its longing tone, it 
touched the Lieutenant, and he found it hard to make 
a reply. 

“If my life, and my love and labors, can make her 
a happy wife, and her existence full of a perfect peace, 
then, God helping me and giving me the strength, I 
shall give them all to her, and feel that but half my 
duty has been performed.” 


BARBARA: 


269 


During the remainder of his stay with them that 
day, and while they were enjoying a bountiful repast, 
prepared by Barbara and the mother, they told him of 
the unexpected absence of Beaumont. He had gone 
down the river on a business trip, saying to them he 
would be away but a few days, unless he should find 
it necessary to go farther. And now he had been 
absent nearly two weeks. They were somewhat 
uneasy, but Beveridge did all possible to allay their 
anxiety; and before he was through the mother was 
much more assured for his safety. 

They did not know, nor did the Lieutenant, that 
really Beaumont was off on a mission in the interest 
of the army, having gone toward Canada at the 
request of General Harrison. Had they known this, 
their fears would have been greatly increased. When 
he left he had contemplated going as far as Proctor’s 
headquarters, if necessary, to ascertain his motives 
and his intended movements. But he had already 
been gone long enough to perform even that duty, 
and have returned, unless he had met with some sort 
of trouble. That, however, the family knew nothing 
about, and consequently did not have it to worry their 
minds. 

After the Lieutenant had talked to them in his 
assuring way, he entered into the story of his again 
joining the army, and how, as by providence, he had 
been sent into the valley once more, after such long 
waiting. He interested them with the accounts of his 
soldier duties in the country about Detroit, of his 
finally being transferred to Fort Meigs for service, and 
how, now, he would long for the whole trouble to end, 


270 


BARBARA: 


that he might eventually take Barbara back to his 
home in Kentucky. 

He gave them a graphic description of his late trip 
across the country from Fort Meigs to Seneca Town, 
and of how tempted he had been, when he crossed the 
trail leading back into the valley, to come that way, 
instead of as he had been ordered; and of the memories 
it brought to his mind of his and Lone Arrow’s trip to 
the Auglaize. Then he told them about his ride 
from Seneca Town, after delivering his dispatches, 
and of the fear that possessed him lest he should be 
ordered in some other direction. 

“On my arrival here, after reporting to Major 
Croghan, and learning that we were to remain over 
night, 1 at once obtained leave of absence for the bal- 
ance of the day; and here I am, the happiest man in 
the whole valley. ’ ’ 

“You are no more so than we are, I can assure 
you, Lieutenant,” said Barbara, and it was easy to 
believe it, when looking at her cheerful face ; for she 
was an ideal picture of contentment, as she sat listen- 
ing to Beveridge’s talk. Her whole soul was expres- 
sive with the joy she felt at his return, and she could 
not help showing it. 

“And if the father he were here, to be so happy 
with us, then it would indeed be so grand,” said the 
mother. “It is his absence that gives me the trouble 
to-day. I cannot understand why he can be so long on 
his journey this time. He never was before, on so 
short a trip. ’ ’ 

“Something unusual has occurred to detain him,” 
replied Beveridge, who himself began to have doubts 


BARBARA : 


271 


if all was as it should be ; possibly from listening to 
the wife’s fears. Then, besides, he could not help but 
consider it a dangerous portion of the country to be 
in, just then, on any sort of business. 

After their meal he took a walk over to the Fort, 
promising them to return and spend the evening. 
Arriving there, he was informed that his stay might 
be of several days’ duration. The Major said to him: 

“Lieutenant, you may arrange to have part of your 
troopers return to Fort Meigs in the morning, with 
some trifling dispatches I may prepare. The balance 
may remain for other duties. If you prefer, you may 
go in the morning, or wait until other orders are nec- 
essary. ’ ’ 

“Major Croghan, nothing in the world will give me 
more pleasure than to be permitted to remain here at 
the Fort for a few days. I was down in this valley 
last September, at which time I came very near being 
captured by a band of roving Indians. When I 
escaped them as by a miracle, I was unfortunately 
wounded, and then captured by a most beautiful and 
accomplished young lady, the daughter of the trader, 
who is now away on some sort of a trip. Beaumont, 
I mean. ’’ 

“Oh! ho! I see, you are trapped! Well, Lieuten- 
ant, you better stay; for let me tell you, I am a young 
man myself, and that little lady has not altogether 
passed my observation unnoticed. To be candid 
with you, if there wasn’t another one, I am foolish 
enough to believe is at least her equal for beauty, why. 
I’ll be damned if I wouldn’t flx your orders so you 
would have to leave this very night Why, Lieuten- 


272 


BARBARA : 


ant, you are a lucky dog, that’s what you are! Cap- 
tured! Ha! ha! Well, let me warn you! Just look 
out for your captor! More than one of the boys were 
smitten during the past winter.” 

‘‘There are many compliments hidden in your 
remarks. Major; but the most pleasing thing of it all 
is that I am to have the privilege of remaining over 
to-morrow,” was the Lieutenant’s reply. 

‘‘By the great jove! Lieutenant, I have half a 
notion to change my mind, and work up some excuse 
for sending you away! Why, damn it! What right 
have you to such pleasures, when the rest of us poor 
devils are languishing here in this infernal out-of- 
the-way place, dying, almost, for the want of female 
society? And here you come, a stranger to the 
Fort and the valley, and you are claiming all the 
privileges.” 

‘‘Yes; but Major, you must remember, I claim a 
title only by right of captivity; and then, if you will 
excuse me, I am not a stranger. If I am not mis- 
taken, my seniority dates back beyond any of you in 
the Fort. Back to last year. Who of all your com- 
mand were here in September?” 

“Well, we didn’t come as captives,” rejoined the 
Major, laughing. 

“No more did I ; but was captured after my arrival. 
And let me tell you, I came in something of a hurry, 
too. With a pack of yelping devils at my heels, every 
bloody one of them anxious for my scalp. And I’ll 
tell you the whole story some day. Major, for your 
kindness in permitting me to remain over.” 

‘‘All right. Lieutenant; try and report to me at 


BARBARA: 


273 


least once each day, and the balance of the time shall 
be yours. ’ ’ 

And with another salute, and a heart as light as the 
air he breathed, the Lieutenant took himself toward the 
Beaumont home. As he was descending the hill, just 
beyond the mission house, he saw Barbara coming to 
meet him, and then together they slowly wended their 
way to the home. 

“Barbara, dear, I have the most glorious news to 
tell you, and I must give it to you now. Instead of 
returning to Fort Meigs in the morning, as was to 
have been the case, I am to remain over, at least one 
day longer. “ 

“That is, indeed, good news. Now, to-morrow we 
shall all go to the Blue Banks, in the morning; and 
then in the afternoon we can go far up the river, 
exploring new countries, to you, at least.” 

“That will be splendid, sweetheart; but, tell me 
first, who are ‘all’ of us, and how are so many to go in 
a boat scarcely large enough for two?” asked the Lieu- 
tenant. 

“Who are ‘all’ of us! Why, yourself and I. Who 
else did you suppose were going on any such trip?” 

“Well, that is plain enough, and thoroughly under- 
stood,” replied Beveridge. 

They were rea,]\y, both of them, too happy for seri- 
ous conversation, and in this strain the talk was kept 
up until near the home, when a more serious thought 
came to the . Lieutenant, and he tried his best to per- 
suade Barbara, now that they were betrothed, to have 
the wedding take place before he left for Fort Meigs. 
She listened attentively to his pleadings for a time, 
18 


274 


BARBARA : 


yet from the commencement her mind had been 
made up. 

“There is no way of knowing, Barbara, what the 
fate of a soldier may be,” he went on to plead. “If 
we are married, and I were to fall in battle, you would 
be my wife, would bear my name ; you could go to my 
home, and be a daughter to my mother. You cannot 
always remain here in the valley; for a time will come 
when they will not be with you, as now.” 

“No; not now. Lieutenant; and let me tell you, it 
is hard for me to say ‘no,’ now. Leave me, yet awhile, 
with my people. They love me, no doubt, as your 
parents love you. They have cherished me from my 
childhood. And when I say that, it means, oh, so very 
much. Their lives will soon enough be darkened by 
my departure. Besides, if you were to fall, serving 
your country, which I pray God hourly you will not, 
then my only comfort would be to spend my days with 
those I have always known and loved; to sit on the 
banks of the beautiful Sandusky and see the sun go 
down, day after day, until that peaceful morning 
when it would rise on that other shore — over there. 
No,” she continued, after a pause, and when she saw 
that Beveridge was about to plead still farther; “serve 
your country, and do your duty as a noble soldier. I 
would, if I were a man. Our lives are all before us — 
theirs are almost gone. We shall be the happier if 
we wait. It will not be long.” 

She gained her point; won, as women do, always, 
on questions of that character, when they are right; 
and they generally are. He consented to wait, and 
gave himself over to the enjoyment of spending the 


BARBARA : 


275 


few hours given him, by the order to remain at the 
Fort for a day or so longer, in Barbara’s company. 
Whenever the opportunity was offered they were wan- 
dering up and down the banks of the river, or floating 
on the stream, in her birch bark canoe. They visited 
the Blue Banks and every other point of interest 
together; and while at the top of the cliff he prevailed 
on her to sing again the song, the last lines of which 
he overheard when he surprised her at the grape-vine 
arbor, the afternoon of his arrival. She complied, but 
gave them in the Indian tongue, save the last three lines : 

“Will you not come to me? You are the star! 

Sweetheart, I wait! 

Wait for you now!” 

So that really he did not get the full and true merits 
of the stanza; but it was all he had heard before, and 
he was satisfied. 

They were both extremely happy; not caring to 
look into the future; and apparently unconscious that 
it was not to last always. The troops had been gone 
but a few days when the Lieutenant was summoned 
to the Major’s headquarters, and ordered to prepare to 
take dispatches over to Fort Meigs, and to be ready to 
leave early in the morning. The detail was given him 
about four o’clock in the afternoon, and from then on 
he proceeded to devote the balance of the day and 
that evening at the Beaumont home, in Barbara’s 
company, planning for their future ; of what they would 
do; and how and when. All of which, like other sim- 
ilar plannings, were demoralized and practically 
destroyed and set aside by transpiring events, not 
then foreseen or thought of by either. 


276 


BARBARA : 


When he left for the Fort that evening it was with 
the promise to take an early breakfast with Barbara 
the next morning. He hoped, he said, as they stood 
on the porch, that it would not be long until he would 
be with them again; but of his own knowledge he was 
as much in the dark as they were, as- to his future 
orders and where they might possibly take him. One 
of his regrets at leaving was much on account of the 
continued absence of Beaumont. The mother was 
growing more uneasy each day, as was Barbara, who 
yet did her best not to show it. And the Lieutenant 
himself began to think it strange, but refrained from 
giving the least intimation that there might be some 
trouble in his continued absence. The fears and 
anxieties of the mother and daughter naturally began 
to tell on him. 

When he reached the Fort that night, although it 
was late, he went direct to the Commandant’s head- 
quarters and inquired of him if he knew anything con- 
cerning Beaumont’s absence, or of the business he 
had gone on. Much to the Lieutenant’s surprise. 
Major Croghan told him that Beaumont had under- 
taken, nearly two weeks before, to proceed to near 
Detroit, and from there into Canada, on a mission for 
General Harrison. 

“It is time he had returned,” said the Major. “It 
should not have taken him more than a week. But it 
may be the information sought after was not easily 
obtained. ” 

‘ ‘ I regret that the man has undertaken such a task, ’ ’ 
was Beveridge’s rejoinder. “That is v/ork younger 
men should perform. His family are not aware of 


BARBARA : 


277 


what has taken him away, naturally supposing it to be 
some business of his own; and they are becoming 
much worried at his continued absence. If I thought 
it would relieve their minds I would tell them, but 
that might make it still worse.” 

‘‘Let me suggest that you talk with the daughter. 
First, ascertain if she has any suspicions of the errand 
he is on. She looks to me like a woman who could 
understand such things without losing her head. And 
if she were told the circumstances would know how 
to allay the fears of the wife.” 

‘‘The suggestion is a good one. I shall see them 
in the morning, early, before leaving for the other 
valley, and shall try to get the opportunity to talk 
with her about it. ” 

When he went over in the morning, in the very 
early gray of the awakening day, when he was about 
half way from the mission house to the home, Barbara 
came out and met him, looking so fresh and happy 
that he did not have the heart then to broach a subject 
he feared might cause her distress. Instead his pulse 
gave a great throb as he met her and realized that he 
was again about to leave her, with as many uncer- 
tainties before him as there had been when he took his 
journey through the wilderness with Lone Arrow. 

Barbara, on her part, had come out to meet him 
that she might be able to say the first “good-morning” 
to him, and possibly receive a greeting that might not 
be offered in the presence of the mother. Beveridge 
took her in his arms, and after a most hearty lover’s 
salutation, they proceeded on to the home. At the 
porch they were met by the mother, who by her actions 


278 


BARBARA : 


showed that she was in a most nervous condition over 
the absence of her husband. Beveridge encouraged 
her in every way he could, and when they sat down to 
the breakfast her mind was much more tranquil. 
After the meal, which both Barbara and the Lieuten- 
ant seemed to enjoy, the more, perhaps, because it was 
partaken of in each other’s presence, he gave the 
mother his adieus, and then persuaded Barbara to 
accompany him part of the way back toward the Fort, 
with the same motive, no doubt, that had prompted 
her to come out and meet him. 

After they had reached the outside of the gate, 
Beveridge said to her: “Barbara, my sweetheart, I 
believe I never saw you more radiant and bewitching 
than this morning,’’ and he put his arm about her 
waist, and drawing her to him in a fond embrace, 
pressed a kiss upon her fresh young lips as he did so. 
“The simple gown, the ’kerchief about your neck, and 
glorious waves of your golden hair, all make you more 
fascinating to me now, than on that long ago after- 
noon, when first I saw you beneath the bushes.” 

“Now, don’t you attempt to faint here, my Lieu- 
tenant, for I have no boat at hand,” and she laughed 
heartily at the remembrance of the event and all its 
happy consequences. “But, really, are you fond of 
such country simplicity, or do you say it merely to 
please?” 

“Barbara, dear, it matters little what it is; whether 
you are in ‘silken robe or cotton gown,’ you are 
always the same to me. And, do you know, you 
almost ruin my resolutions to be a good and faithful 
soldier. I want to throw away my commission and 


BARBARA : 


279 


all its glorious prospects, and forever sit at your feet 
and adore you. ” 

“That would not be the manly thing to do, Lieu- 
tenant. Every one loves a soldier ; and a noble soldier 
above all else. It is every man’s duty to do what he 
can for his country. I should rejoice if father Beau- 
mont belonged to the army.’’ 

“Then, little sweetheart, let me tell you something. 
Beaumont is now performing a soldier’s duties, and 
that is what is keeping him from his home.’’ 

He felt her arm give a tremor as he said this, and 
when she looked up in his face her features were 
wreathed in a smile of inquiry he could not well mis- 
understand — surprise and pleasure combined. 

“Yes, Barbara, Beaumont is off, over in Canada, 
most likely, on a mission somewhat of the nature of 
the one that brought me to the valley the first time. 
I tell you this because you ought to know it, and so 
you may be the better able to strengthen the mother, 
and not let her worry too much. Knowing it you can 
the easier allay her fears. There is little doubt but 
that he will return before long, now ; but until he does 
excuses must be made for his absence. ’ ’ 

“I am, indeed, glad you have told me this. It 
was something that somehow I had surmised; yet 
could not see how he could do anything to benefit, or 
be of service. There is only one danger— he is well 
acquainted and will have friends; but he has enemies 
there as well. ’ ’ 

Then she proceeded to tell him of the Frenchman, 
who had made their home his stopping place, and the 
trouble he gave them and herself; of his threats 


280 


BARBARA : 


against the father, and the fear that he might cause 
him trouble if they should meet. Beveridge felt that 
she was disturbed, in spite of her assumed demeanor, 
and he said to her : 

“Do not let that, nor any other thought, distress 
you. The father is abundantly capable of taking care 
of himself anywhere, and will turn up all right in a 
very few days. ’ ’ 

“I have no doubt of it, Lieutenant; but if I thought 
that miserable wretch was giving him any trouble, 
why, I would myself go to his rescue, and wreak out 
on his adversary a revenge that is due him, and that I 
should delight in giving him!” And as she said the 
words her brown eyes sparkled with a spirit he had 
never before seen her display, and that he so much 
admired in a woman. 

She was about to hesitate, and go no farther, when 
he persuaded her to continue on. “For there, you 
see, is Father Jacquese, at the mission house. Let 
us speak to him. “ 

He knew it would give him a few moments more 
of her company; a pleasure he could not bear to think 
of ending so long as it could be prevented. At the 
steps of the rude hut they met the Reverend Father, 
and he gave them a hearty greeting. 

“May the Heavenly Father bless you both. What 
brings you out so early? Are you off again. Lieuten- 
ant?” he asked, as they came up and he took their 
hands. 

“Yes; off for the Maumee once more,” answered 
Beveridge. Just then an orderly rode up, gave the 
reins of a horse he was leading into the Lieutenant’s 


BARBARA : 


281 


hands, then turned and rode back toward the Fort. 
Holding the animal, Beveridge turned, and taking the 
hand of Barbara, said to the priest: 

“Your blessing, Father.” 

“May the Father’s best care and guidance go with 
you and keep you free from harm and sin,” was said 
by the priest, with uplifted hands. 

“Now, Barbara, my darling, 1 must leave you for a 
time.” And holding both her hands in his, they 
looked into the very souls of each other and with a 
“God bless you!” he pressed a kiss upon her forehead; 
then giving her hand to the priest, he said: 

“Take her home, for 1 think she will be glad to 
talk with you on a subject concerning Beaumont” 
Then, swinging himself into the saddle, he rode off 
toward the Fort When he had gone a short distance, 
he turned and watched them, Barbara and the priest, 
pass out of sight below the hill. Then he rode away, 
saying to himself: 

“A soldier’s duties are always hard, even when 
full of glory; and I fear, now, mine shall be doubly 
severe. May they soon end, is my only wish just 
now ; and with that in view I shall perform my duties 
well.” 

On arriving at the Fort, he went inside, and from 
the Major received a package of dispatches he was 
directed to deliver to General Clay. His verbal orders 
were to remain at Fort Meigs until he should receive 
instructions to proceed to Seneca Town, or elsewhere. 

Then he and his troopers rode away while it was 
yet early in the morning, and after a long ride reached 
the Maumee, where all was commotion over an antici- 


282 


BARBARA : 


pated attack, the combined forces of Tecumtha and 
Proctor having been reported as at the lower bay. 
Word had already been sent to General Harrison, and 
it was in reply to this that Beveridge had ridden 
across the country that morning. On receipt of the 
news from the Maumee, Harrison sent a dispatch to 
Major Croghan to be prepared for an attack from the 
Indians, as he believed they would march across the 
country for that purpose; and with this were dis- 
patches for General Clay. And it was these that Bev- 
eridge carried with him. 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN. 


“The friends who leave us do not feel the sorrows 
Of the parting, as we feel it who must stay, 

Lamenting day by day.” — Longfellow, 


When Beaumont left the valley it was at the request 
of General Harrison, who was anxious to gain informa- 
tion as to what were the intentions of the British Gen- 
eral Proctor. He had asked Beaumont to take his 
way down the river, and if possible to the Detroit 
country, and thence across into Canada, there in some 
way to learn, as near as was in the nature of things, 
what the real motives of the enemy were. Beaumont 
had been on the journey many times before, and felt 
confident he would have little or no trouble in accom- 
plishing what was asked. Near the Detroit river he 
fell in with other traders, men whom he had met 
before, on other trips, and together they proceeded on 
the way, having a social time as they attended to 
business. 

Beaumont had been across the border, near Fort 
Malden, and was about ready to wend his way back 
toward the Sandusky once more, when as ill luck 

283 


284 


BARBARA : 


would have it, he ran onto the Frenchman Deau- 
grand. With the effrontery of his brazen nature, he 
approached Beaumont, and sought to renew an 
acquaintance that had ended so disastrously but a 
short time before. Wisdom should have told Beau- 
mont to be as deceitful as his would-be. French friend; 
but that was not his nature. It was with difficulty 
that he restrained himself for the moment, and instead 
of knocking the fellow down, he told him he had no 
desire to speak with him. 

“My dear friend, Isadore Beaumont, we should be 
the very best of companions, for you and my father 
were for many years good friends. And what if I did 
have a very great passion for that beautiful daughter 
of yours! Did she not for my love give me this scar 
on the cheek!” 

And as he spoke he revealed a scar — a long, red 
mark, running from the ear down toward the neck. 

“You damned knave!” almost shrieked Beaumont 
in his rage. “Why do you persist in your insults to 
me! Take that!” 

And in the instant the Frenchman went spinning 
off the fist of Beaumont, sprawling to the ground. 
And when Beaumont was about to deal out further 
punishment, he was surrounded by an angry mob of 
Deaugrand’s countrymen. He hurled them right and 
left for a time, his great sinewy arms swinging like 
sledge hammers run by steam. But at length he was 
overcome by great numbers, and prevented from again 
reaching his adversary, who was crying out at the top 
of his voice: 

“Arrest him! Don’t let him escape! He is one 


BARBARA : 


286 


damn spy! He belongs in the Sandusky valley, and 
he is here for no good, whatever! Arrest and search 
him!” 

Not a friend appeared to speak in Beaumont’s 
behalf. His companions were not present, and in 
spite of any protests he could make, a great mob 
hustled him off to prison, where a guard was set over 
him. His accuser was loud in denouncing him, 
declaring he would prove him to be a spy, and that he 
belonged to the American army. For a time it looked 
serious for Beaumont. Fortunately not a scrap of 
paper was found on him; yet he was held under sus- 
picion, and in everyway threatened with vengeance if 
he did not confess to his guilt. His wrath was at the 
boiling point all the time, and he denounced them all 
in the most bitter terms he was able to apply. 

‘‘I am but a trader, and was here on business. I 
belong in the Sandusky valley, where I have lived for 
many years. That damned Frenchman, he come to 
my home and he insult my daughter; and because 
she want to kill him, as he should be, now he says 1 
am a spy! Sacre! boUr' 

He was retained for several days, awaiting develop- 
ments. In the meantime, Proctor had set out for the 
Maumee, with a force, with which Beaumont learned, 
he intended making a feint on Fort Meigs, and then, 
after drawing attention to that point, march to the 
Sandusky valley by crossing the country on foot. 
Then the intention was to lay siege to Fort Stephen- 
son, and before its handful of men could be reinforced, 
compel it to surrender. It was not until this army 
under Proctor had reached the Maumee bay that 


286 


BARBARA : 


Beaumont was finally able to get word to some of his 
old acquaintances, and have them identify and vouch 
for him ; then he was released. After that he spent a 
day searching for the man who had caused him all the 
trouble, but he was not to be found. 

At last he set out for home, and when he came up 
the Sandusky bay, Proctor had been up the Maumee, 
had met with disappointment, and was sailing for the 
Sandusky river. With all possible speed Beaumont 
trudged along toward Fort Stephenson, and by a few 
short hours reached the lower rapids in advance of the 
invading army. Reporting at once to Major Croghan, 
a courier was dispatched for Seneca Town, with the 
positive information that the enemy was coming up 
the river. 

This event appeared to have changed the whole 
tenor of the trader’s life. Before, he had desired only 
to live in peace with his family, letting others contend 
and fight if they would. Now, he was red-handed for 
war, and swore he would have his revenge on any that 
came his way. 

His long tramp, his confinement, and the indig- 
nities he felt, all worked on him to such a degree that 
for several hours he was a total wreck of his former 
self. Then, arousing himself, he went to the Fort 
and offered his services to the Major when the strug- 
gle came. 

To Father Jacquese he had much to say. He held 
a long and earnest conversation with him, in reference 
to his business affairs, for, he said to him : 

“The time is come when every man of us must 
struggle for his home. The army is coming, and it 


BARBARA : 


287 


will be here in too great numbers for the Fort to stand 
unless it is reinforced. The wife and the daughter, 
they must be made safe, and then, Isadore Beaumont 
will show the damned English scoundrels how to treat 
a gentleman.” 

“Save your wrath and your hard words, Isadore, 
for the struggle you say is coming. You but courted 
the treatment you received, when you assumed the 
responsibilities of a spy, and went into their country 
for information,” said the priest. 

“Not at all! Not at all! It was that miserable 
blackguard who gave me the trouble! Oh! Sucre! But 
if he would only come; then should I be so glad! He 
is too much the coward to do that! And the revenge 
it will come to some other man! If the Fort should 
fall — if I myself shall be killed — see to it that my 
wishes are carried out.” 

“Isadore,” said the priest, “you are full of your 
vengeance now. Later on you will not talk so. But, 
1 promise yoi!, that always shall I stand for the good 
of your people, no matter what may come.” 

At the home Beaumont was an altogether different 
being. He was full of deepest humiliation, and 
bemoaned the ill luck that had prevented him from 
wreaking out his wrath on the man who had offered so 
much of insult to him and his. 

“If you had done that, then surely you never would 
have come back to us. That would have kept you 
there, surely,” said Barbara. “And you know, you 
promised that mine should be the vengeance.” 

“Yes, but think of me, Isadore Beaumont, to be 
arrested for that dog ! It was the insult to me, forever. ” 


288 


BARBARA : 


“Oh, no; that was but part of a soldier’s life, to 
submit to such things. Let me tell you, my father, of 
some news. Since you have been away, Lieutenant 
Beveridge has been here; and he has asked me to be 
his wife,” and with downcast look, she approached 
closer to her foster father — the man who all his life 
had done so much for her, in his efforts to make her 
happy. 

“And what did my little coquette say? Barbara, 
nia chere, did you give him the answer he would have? 
Ah, yes! I know you did! It can be seen so plain in 
vour eyes. And indeed, am I glad! Not. to lose the 
daughter; but to know that then she will be so happy, 
as she should!” 

“Yet I feared you would not like it; and did so wish 
that you were here, to say the ‘yes’ with me and the 
mother. Indeed, have you made my life full of hap- 
piness, lonely as it has been; and to you I am so grate- 
ful, and shall always pray for you.” 

She had taken up a position at his feet, and on her 
bended knees, had reached her arms about his neck ; 
and as he took her face in his great, rough hands, he 
kissed her on the forehead and said; 

“But for your coming into our home in the young 
childhood, our lives would have been full of loneliness; 
but for your great love we would have been old beyond 
our time. It is the hope that all your future life may 
be full of a new joy, that makes me feel happy. You 
are deserving of a better home than we have ever 
given you; and of a noble husband. That I trust the 
Lieutenant will prove to you.” 

And there for an hour sat the foster father and 


BARBARA : 


289 


daughter, living over again the past ; the one showing 
her great appreciation for their kindness in rescuing 
her from a life that would have been as slavery ; and 
the other, the rough, strong man, trying to let her 
know how much of life, and love, and happiness, she 
had brought to them, and the bright joy she had 
proven to them, always. 

It was the last and the longest talk they ever had 
on the subject. It closed, leaving both happy and 
free from all regrets. It was the finale of their quiet, 
peaceful home — of her childhood home — of the only 
life she had ever known. For, on the morrow, the 
valley was filled with an invading army, and the home 
that had known its inmates for so many years knew 
them no more, forever. Between the father, mother 
and daughter, it was a joyous reunion, the last they 
ever held on earth. 


19 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN. 


“It is time, oh, passionate heart and anxious eye. 

That I stand by my pledge, e’en though I die.” 

— Tennyson. 


Just when the first defense was built on the site of 
Fort Stephenson is not of record ; it is not even a fair 
subject for reasonable conjecture, as there is nothing 
to go by, save the occasion of Washington’s visit to 
the valley in 1752. It was then selected by him as a 
proper position for a fort, but there is no record telling 
of any constrtiction, of any sort, at that time, either 
for offense or defense. Originally, it consisted merely 
of a rude stockade, made of posts set in the ground on 
ends, perhaps ten feet high, with a shallow ditch on 
the outside, possibly six feet deep with the earth 
thrown on the outside and against the pickets. After- 
ward, or possibly at the same time, a log house was 
built within the enclosure of the stockade, and was 
used for years as a storehouse, or trading place, where 
Indians and trappers came to exchange their furs and 
other articles of commerce for whatever of supplies 
the trader might have on hand. 

290 


BARBARA: 


291 


The stockade and fort had been rebuilt twice, by 
order of the government; but in those days, even, 
“jobbery” was not an unknown quantity among con- 
tractors. Somehow, the thought seemed to prevail 
with all who had come to do the work, that there never 
would be an occasion for using it, that no enemy 
would, or could, penetrate that far up the valley, and 
the result was the work was most poorly done on both 
occasions. Even when it was rebuilt in 1812, those 
who were engaged in its construction scouted the idea 
that it would ever be necessary to defend it against 
an invading army. 

Its dimensions were greatly increased in its last 
construction over its original designs. It was built 
one hundred yards on the north and south sides, by 
fifty yards on the east and west ends. All about the 
outside of the stockade was a ditch, which with the 
dirt thrown out in its construction, gave an entrench- 
ment of about twelve feet in depth. Along the inside 
of this entrenchment was the new stockade of posts, 
possibly twelve feet in height above the embankment, 
and set so close together as to prevent any passage 
between them. Still inside this was the defense 
proper, constructed of heavy logs laid one on top of 
the other, similar to those in the old-fashioned log 
cabins of those early days. At the northeast and 
southwest ends, blockhouses, about twenty feet 
square, and what might be called two stories high, 
were built, and made a part of the defense. These 
were also of logs, and their interiors were used for 
officers’ quarters, and other departments. In the 
north center of the defense was a bastion, so con- 


292 


BARBARA : 


structed as to give it the command of a deep gully that 
came up through the hill from the valley below, and 
was formed by the waters from the table-lands of the 
hill, as they sought their way to the river. From this 
bastion a cannon could rake the gully for several rods 
with a most destructive fire. The Fort gate was near 
the southwest end. Inside were a storehouse (the old 
one), a hospital building, a magazine, a well, and 
quarters for troops and horses. 

This was the condition of the Fort when Major 
Croghan took command of it, in the summer of 1813. 
During its occupancy that season it was very much 
strengthened in various ways, by his orders, and 
according to his ideas of what it actually needed. He 
attended to all the details himself, and saw to it that 
everything was properly done. He also carefully 
arranged, and planned, that if an attack were made it 
would be on the east end and the north side, as from 
both these directions a force was more likely to come 
than from any other. It was on the north side that a 
perfect and unobstructed view of the river was had 
from the Fort, for almost a mile down stream. It was 
Major Croghan who also conceived the idea that the 
gully, coming up through the hill as it did, from the 
direction of the river on the northeast, would be con- 
sidered an advantageous and available point along 
which to make an attack. Accordingly he prepared 
his plans, by constructing a false porthole in the end 
of the bastion commanding a view of the gully, as it 
came up out of the hill, and along which a cannon 
could rake it with a most destructive and deadly fire 
of shot and shell. 


BARBARA : 


293 


Still, after all this had been done, after it had been 
so thoroughly rebuilt, and so much improved by the 
Major’s command, it was not considered defensible to 
an assault by cannon ; and General Harrison, therefore, 
always hesitated in ordering a positive stand to be 
made in case of such an attack. 

It was on the 20th of July, 1813, that General Har- 
rison was appraised of the fact that Proctor and 
Tecum tha were in the Maumee bay, and after sending 
word to Croghan to be aware of surprises, he rode 
over to Fort Meigs, to review the situation and ascer- 
tain the conditions personally. Even then, when he 
was on the ground, and could see for himself, he was 
of the opinion that no attack would be made at that 
point. After assuring General Clay that he was pre- 
pared to send him more troops if they were needed, he 
rode away to his headquarters at Seneca Town, some 
eight or nine miles up the Sandusky river from Fort 
Stephenson, but not until he had another interview 
with Croghan. Before leaving Clay he cautioned him 
not to let the sly old Indian warrior, Tecumtha, play 
any of his tricky on him, and to be sure that couriers 
were sent him every day and night, as long as it were 
possible, and deemed necessary. These same precau- 
tions he gave to Major Croghan before leaving for his 
headquarters. 

On arriving at Fort Meigs, after his ride from Fort 
Stephenson, Lieutenant Beveridge was ordered to 
remain’ there, and for several days was kept busy 
watching the movements of the enemy; and as a con- 
sequence had little time to think of people or events 
in the Lower Sandusky region. Tecumtha, on the 


294 


BARBARA ; 


25th of July, attempted to do just what General Har- 
rison expected he would. The whole British and 
Indian forces had come up the Maumee river, and 
while- the former kept out of sight, at what was known 
as Fort Miami, the latter were marched to the south- 
east of the Fort, around through the woods, and began 
a sham battle, as if they were attacking reinforce- 
ments that were making their way to the Fort. The 
Indians had been so closely watched,' however, by 
scouts, that Clay was fully aware of what they were 
up to, and in the midst of their shooting and yelling, 
he sent a few cannon shot over into their midst, which 
soon caused them to cease their firing. But it was all 
that Clay could do to convince his subordinate officers 
that some of their own forces were not out there, and 
being assailed by the savages; and for a time it 
looked as if some of them would go out to their rescue 
in spite of the General’s orders not to. That was 
what Tecumtha was working for. Once they had gone 
outside, the British, who were close at hand, would 
have rushed out and attempted to cut them off, and 
possibly have gained an entrance to the Fort. 

When the Indians found they had failed to draw 
Clay and his forces outside the defenses, they with- 
drew during the night, and in the midst of a heavy 
rain storm, the whole force of British and Indians 
dropped down the river. From that on, until the 
28th, Lieutenant Beveridge and his troopers, together 
with Indian scouts, among them Lone Arrow, were 
kept busy watching the further maneuvers of the 
enemy. The night of the 28th, the British embarked 
all their cannon, stores, and army equipments, set sail 


BARBARA : 


295 


down the river, and went to anchor in the lower 
bay. 

On the morning of July 29th, Lieutenant Beveridge 
was ordered to communicate with General Harrison, 
carrying with him full information of every move 
made up to the hour of his departure. Soon after he 
had left, however, along toward noon of the same day, 
Indian scouts came to Fort Meigs and reported that a 
large force of Indians were marching across the 
country toward the vSandusky valley, no doubt, with 
the intention of devastating the country, or for the 
purpose of attacking Fort Stephenson. 

Upon his arrival at Seneca Town, Lieutenant Bev- 
eridge was ordered to remain there, and after a short 
rest be prepared for whatever service might be 
required of him. The next day other couriers arrived 
and reported that the Indians were marching across 
the country. This report caused the Lieutenant such 
great anxiety and fear for the safety of his friends in 
the valley, that he went to the General and craved 
permission to proceed to Fort Stephenson and warn 
the residents of their danger. But not until Harrison 
had received word from a special courier, whom he 
knew was far down the river (supposedly transacting 
business with French traders, but really watching for 
Proctor’s approach), didheconsider Fort Stephenson, or 
the people, in imminent danger ; and then it was too late 
for him to carry into operation his intended designs. 

Harrison himself did not believe that Major Cro- 
ghan could be defeated by the Indian force said to be 
on the march across the country ; but, if Proctor, with 
his regulars and cannon were to unite with the Indians 


296 


BARBARA: 


in an assault, then he felt sure the Fort would fall. 
Possibly, with another man than Major Croghan, it 
might have; but he was there with other intentions. 

During their last interview at Lower Sandusky, 
General Harrison had said to the Major: “Should the 
British troops appear in force, and with cannon, and 
you discover them in time to retreat, you will do so at 
once; but not until you have destroyed all the sup- 
plies. You must, however, be aware that to attempt 
to retreat in the face of an Indian force would be 
unwise. Against them as assailants your garrison 
would be safe, no matter how great their numbers.” 

When, therefore, Harrison received the news that 
Proctor was sailing up the Sandusky river, and that 
they would attack Fort Stephenson, he at once called 
his generals and other officers in a council of war. 
Eight, beside himself, were present, and all were of 
the opinion that Major Croghan should vacate the 
Fort without making an effort to save it, or to protect 
the settlement. In fact, that he should do so on his 
standing order, just referred to, and not wait for other 
instructions. But Harrison believed he knew the 
young officer’s bravery too well to think he would do 
any such thing, until absolute necessity, or orders, 
compelled him to; that he came from stock that did 
not run at the first indication of danger; and that the 
great odds he would have to contend with would be 
counted as nothing. After spending much valuable time 
in useless deliberations, that should have been de- 
voted to starting reinforcements to the Fort, he at 
last proceeded to send couriers down the valley, with 
instructions to Major Croghan to abandon his position 


BARBARA: 


297 


:it once, and march the forces to Seneca Town. Fear- 
ing some accident might occur, he sent the scouts by 
different routes, hoping that one, if not both, would 
be sure of reaching the Fort. The order he sent to 
the Major read as follows: 

“Sir — Immediately on receiving this letter you will 
abandon Fort Stephenson, set fire to it, and repair 
with your command this night to headquarters. Cross 
the river and come up on the opposite side. If you 
should deem and find it impracticable to make good 
your march to this place, take the road to Huron, and 
pursue it with the most circumspection.” 

This order was dated late in the day of July 29th. 
It did not reach the Fort until nearly noon of the 30th, 
and then, so far as a retreat was concerned, it would 
have been the most impractical thing possible to 
attempt. Major Croghan, fully aware of the situation 
confronting him, had determined to stay and defend 
the Fort and the people therein, at all hazards. He 
had information from the same source as the General. 
He knew the strength of the force approaching; and, 
at a council, held with his officers and men, had decided 
to stay right where they were, and fight it out. Indeed, 
according to his standing order, and the conditions 
surrounding him, he could not well have done other- 
wise, as the Indians were all about the Fort, save on 
the extreme east side, between the Fort and the river, 
before any word had been received from the General. 

The night the couriers set out from Seneca Town 
with the dispatches for Major Croghan was one of 
pitchy darkness, and when those who had gone down 
the east side of the river reached the Fort (after hav- 


298 


BARBARA: 


ing been lost for hours), the forests all about were 
alive with the invading Indians. Those who attempted 
coming down on the west side never reached their 
destination, but coming in contact with the savages, 
some of them managed to make their way back to 
headquarters. 

On receipt of General Harrison’s order, directing 
him to vacate the Fort, and destroy it and all the sup- 
plies, Major Croghan, after another consultation with 
his officers, sat down and penned the following in 
reply, but not until they had thoroughly considered 
all their possibilities for being able to make a success- 
ful retreat: 

“I have just received yours of yesterday, ordering 
me to destroy this place and make good my retreat, 
which was received too late to be carried into execu- 
tion. We have determined to maintain this place, 
and, by heaven, we will!” 

This dispatch was placed in the hands of the scouts 
in a short time after their arrival, and they at once 
proceeded back toward General Harrison’s headquar- 
ters, which place they reached in a few hours in safety. 

It was after midnight, Friday, July 31st, when 
Lieutenant Beveridge, unable longer to stand the 
strain of fear and anguish that filled his being for the 
safety of Barbara and her people, called once more at 
the General’s headquarters, and although so late found 
the Commander still up and engaged with his duties. 
Gaining an admission, Beveridge pleaded for permis- 
sion to ride down the river and warn the people, and 
if possible, get them to some place of safety. The 
earnestness of the Lieutenant prevailed, and he 


BARBARA : 


299 


Started out soon after, carrying with him another 
dispatch to Major Croghan. 

Confident of his own well being, but filled with 
fears for Barbara’s safety, and absorbed with the 
burning desire to rescue her at any risk to himself, 
Beveridge started out on what was a most perilous 
undertaking. It was at an hour when the camp was 
wrapt in dreamy slumbers, and, save for- the measured 
tread of the sentries there were no sounds abroad and 
none to witness his departure. In the darkness, com- 
pletely taken up with his thoughts of the peril of his 
sweetheart and her people, he had ridden but a few 
miles, when all of a sudden, he was surrounded by 
savages and jerked from his horse. They had come 
upon him so suddenly, that he could not even draw a 
pistol to defend himself. He made a desperate struggle 
to extricate himself from their grasp, fought against 
great odds, but it was of no use, for he was hustled 
from his horse in a ruthless manner, dragged off into 
the woods, bound securely, and then marched on 
toward the northwest. Presently it began to grow 
daylight, and as they frequently met other Indians 
going east, Beveridge came to the conclusion he was 
somewhere west of the place he set out for. 

To attempt to describe his feelings would be futile. 
Stung with remorse at his carelessness, as he consid- 
ered it, in falling into their hands (for if he had crossed 
the river to its east banks he would most likely have 
reached the Fort in safety), there was added to it the 
anguish of the thoughts of what might possibly have 
befallen Barbara! Probably, like himself a prisoner, 
in the hands of these reckless savages! Not only that, 


300 


BARBARA : 


but when they searched him at daylight, and had 
relieved him of all his valuables, one of the Indians 
had taken from him the beads and the medallion, and 
had put it about his own neck. He struggled desper- 
ately when this was done — fought like a bound lion ; 
but it did no good, whatever. With his hands securely 
fastened behind him, he could do nothing. When he 
persisted in his efforts by throwing himself against his 
captors, and in vain endeavors to break his fastenings, 
he was struck a stunning blow on the head, and that 
felled' him to the ground. Before he could regain his 
feet all of them set at him, and kicked him about until 
there was little of life left in his body. Then, when 
they were themselves exhausted, they jerked him to his 
feet again, dragged him along in a hurried man- 
ner, until it was late in the afternoon, and they had 
reached the main trail between the two forts. Here 
they halted and tied him securely to a tree. Thus, he 
was subjected to all sorts of indignities, utterly help- 
less to defend himself. 

If he could only get loose, he thought; if he could 
have but one chance in a thousand, he would gladly 
have taken it, in a contest with them, not for himself, 
but for the possession of the token so much dearer to 
him than his own life, and which he had sworn to 
defend and keep sacred. Several times they ap- 
proached him during the afternoon with uplifted tom- 
ahawks, and he felt that his life was forfeited. With 
it all he continually pictured in his mind the most hor- 
rible things concerning the treatment of Barbara, and 
her people, all of whom were of more concern to him 
than his own existence. Where was she? Like him, 


BARBARA : 


301 


a captive! In the hands of some of these savages! 
Possibly not very far away! And he unable to save or 
defend her! “Great God!” he soliloquized. “If I 
could but be free, to contend with them all ! If even 
unto death! For that would be preferable to all 
this!” Yet, struggle as he might, he could not free 
himself. 

His efforts only exhausted him, and at last he 
desisted. All hope seemed lost to him. He coul^ 
only await whatever doom might be in store for him. 
And as it looked to him, then, when the darkness 
began gathering about him, his chances seemed as 
gloomy as the wilderness all around. There, alone, 
in the forest, with not a single friend to miss him, or 
to look for him, or bring relief! No one, save the 
General, knew of his departure for the Fort, and he 
would suppose him to be there. He would try and 
wait — for he would have to — wait and pray for some 
chance to free himself. Then, he thought, even with 
five to one, he could battle for the recovery of Bar- 
bara’s medal, though he were to lose his life to each 
of them. 

With this end in view he took in every situation 
about him. Noted how the savages carried their 
weapons, their knives and their tomahawks. Each of 
them, beside these side arms, was possessed of some 
sort of a musket. If by any chance he could free 
himself, seize one of the guns, and then lay about him 
with it as a club, he believed he could brain the five 
of them before they could again overcome him. In 
his imagination he grew strong, and possessed the 
powers of a Hercules, when in fact, fastened as he was 


302 


BARBARA ; 


with his hands behind him, and his body bound to a 
tree — he was hourly growing weaker and weaker. 

From the time he had been thus made secure, he 
had scarcely taken his eyes from the Indian who had 
his medal. He watched him almost continually, to 
see that he kept it about his neck. So intently would 
his gaze become at times that he feared he was losing 
his reason. At last he gave up watching the charm 
^s the darkness began settling down, and only kept 
the Indian in view. The coming gloom of the night 
was now his only hope, and he longed for it as he 
never had before. In it some relief might come. It 
possibly would give him some chance, he knew not 
what, to free himself. And he settled down and 
waited with only a pain of lost despair. But waited 
and prayed, as his mother had taught him — asking 
God to send some relief — for strength to hold out — for 
his deliverance, and for Barbara’s safety. His heart 
sank low, and as the darkness settled all around, it 
pressed him down with a sickening despair. But he 
clung to a faith, some how, that some way, he would 
yet be relieved from his hopeless situation. How, he 
could not conceive. But he had a hope. 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. 


“See, the fire is sinking low; 

Dusky red the dying embers glow; 

While about them still I cower.” 

— Longfellow, 


It was about daylight when Lone Arrow, who was 
at the Seneca Town camp (having come there the 
evening before with word from Fort Meigs) heard of 
Lieutenant Beveridge’s departure for the lower valley, 
and knowing the condition the country was in, 
with the besieging Indians all about, and with a fore- 
boding of impending evil, he himself started out for 
the Fort, with the intention of learning all he could of 
the Lieutenant and the Beaumonts. It was yet quite 
early in the morning when he reached the banks 
across the river from their valley home. His long and 
steady strides had carried him along the trail to the 
Blue Banks in much less time than it would have 
taken a white man. There he stopped and took a look 
at the valley below him, and he could readily see that 
all the homes had been abandoned. There were no 
signs of life about them all. Even his own people had 

303 


304 


BARBARA : 


taken their departure from the vicinity. This last 
surprised him more than all else; and he asked him- 
self what it could mean! If the Beaumonts had been 
interfered with in any way, surely, he thought, there 
would be some evidence of it, somewhere. The home 
was intact and, apparently, unmolested. The absence 
of his own people, whom he knew had been in camp 
near by, seemed to perplex him very much. For some 
moments he sat in deep study. Then he made his way 
to the Fort by crossing the stream at the lower rapids, 
took a course up through the tall grass and weeds, and 
entered the stockade at the southwest corner. 

No one there knew anything about Lieutenant 
Beveridge. Neither were the Beaumonts there. Just 
as Lone Arrow was about to leave, Beaumont was dis- 
covered among the soldiers, and from him the Indian 
learned that Barbara, the mother, and the other 
women and children along Glenn creek, were at the 
mission house, under the benign care of the “Holy 
Cross, ’ ’ where the priest felt they would be as safe as 
at the Fort. But Beaumont had not seen nor heard 
anything of the Lieutenant. 

This was enough! Back upon his tracks Lone 
Arrow went, and lost no time about it. After cross- 
ing the rapids again, and as he was hurrying along the 
high banks, a young brave from his own people, who 
had watched him as he entered the Fort, and had seen 
him come out again, met him and explained that they 
had left their camp when the Beaumonts and other 
settlers had gone to the mission house, and that the 
tribe was still watching their safety. He was off, 
a,fter telling the young brave the errand he was on, 


BARBARA : 


305 


and on his way crossed the stream at Ball’s Ford. In 
a short time he found the trail of Beveridge’s horse; 
the marks of moccasined feet, and of where a struggle 
had occurred. Then he was sure of what had hap- 
pened, and followed the tracks off into the wilderness. 

It was no easy task he had undertaken, and none 
but an Indian, or one who all his life had been used to 
such incidents would have attempted it. Not only did 
they have a good start of him, but before very long 
he was being confused by other trails crossing the one 
he was following, sometimes going along with the one 
he was on, and then abruptly leaving it. Each time 
this happened he got down on his hands and knees, 
his face close to the ground (like the hound following 
the tracks of a deer), and thus succeeded in keeping 
along with the one containing the tracks of the Lieu- 
tenant. Several times he appeared to have lost it; 
but, after going back, he would find it, and then hur- 
ried to make up for lost time. Proceeding forward 
was very slow work. Not only did these counter 
trails perplex him, but he knew he was likely to run 
on to other roving bands, and that might give him 
much more trouble. While his progress was slow, he 
kept steadily on, and soon felt sure he must be gain- 
ing’ on those he was in pursuit of. His movements 
were as stealthy, almost, as the snake that glided 
along in the grass; then, at other times, when he had 
made sure of all around him, he would go bounding 
off at a very rapid gait. 

Finally, away ahead of him, he saw a group of 
Indians, near what he knew must be the main trail, 
at or near the spot where to-day rests the peaceful 
20 


306 


BARBARA: 


village of Woodville, on the Maumee and Western 
Reserve turnpike. They might be the ones who had 
the Lieutenant a prisoner, and it might be only 
another band. At all events, 'tis now his Indian tact 
and shrewdness must serve him well. Cautiously, 
and as silently as the ant that crawled at his feet, he 
moved forward, creeping low on the ground most of 
the time ; raising his head above the grass and weeds, 
to note his own and their whereabouts. Then, for a 
time, with his ear to the ground, listening intently; 
then with his head up again, he would crawl as fat 
as he dared, without knowing where he was, with 
reference to the band ahead of him. 

At last he reaches what he knows is the nearest 
point he dare approach. All he can do now is to wait. 
Wait with that patience that only an Indian seems 
endowed. Wait for darkness; or for some unknown 
opportunity. Wait, and be sure that he himself is not 
seen, yet seeing all they may do. And wait he did, 
through long, tedious hours. 

At times he tried to hear what their conversation 
was about, but the voices came to him only in an unin- 
telligible jumble. They were too far away for him to 
hear distinctly, only as they would raise their tones 
above the ordinary pitch, and it gave him no clue. He 
attempted on one or two occasions during the after- 
noon to attract the attention of the man whom they 
had bound to the tree ; but each effort gave some alarm 
to the Indians, and received no attention from the 
prisoner; so he desisted in any efforts in that direction. 
Whatever he did, he must depend on his own ingenu- 
ity for carrying it into effect. He could hope for no 


BARBARA : 


307 


aid from any source, whatever. Still, he thought, if 
he could in some way let the prisoner know that help 
was at hand, he would do it. How could he? If they 
(he and the Lieutenant) had only made a signal 
between themselves when they took the long trip 
through the wilderness — now it would serve him a 
purpose. At this thought, he uttered the shrill note 
of a bird, only to set the Indians with their ears up in 
the air, listening intently, and there was not a muscle 
disturbed in the prisoner, as far as he could see. 
Discretion in an Indian is everything; and, as with his 
patience, he decided to use it. He had Indians as 
cunning as himself to deal with, and hence would not 
dare make any sign, whatever, to attract their captive. 

When he came up with the Indians who held the 
Lieutenant prisoner, and found they were alongside 
the main trail, between Fort Stephenson and the Mau- 
mee, his great fear was that other Indians from either 
direction might come along, in any numbers, and if 
they joined these in camp, it would put him in great 
danger of being discovered and taken prisoner, as well 
as materially lessening any hope of rescuing the white 
man. So, while he must keep a close watch of all 
about him, he must also be sure that he himself was 
not discovered by the ones in camp, nor by any others 
who might by chance come along. In short, he must 
see, and know, all about what was going on around 
him, and still not let his whereabouts be known, or 
even suspected. 

He had crawled up alongside and behind the trunk 
of a recently fallen tree, and had so completely hidden 
himself that he had actually almost become a part of 


308 


BARBARA : 


the limbs and branches. There, where he could see 
and hear every move they made, and have the pris- 
oner in view, he stationed himself, and lay for hours; 
waited, hoping that every moment might in some way 
show him an opportunity for the rescue; a chance, ever 
so small, would be taken advantage of. 

There were five of the Indians, and he was sure, 
without a doubt, they were loiterers from the invad- 
ing tribes of Indians, but a few miles away in the San- 
dusky valley. He could see Beveridge, now, through 
the branches of the tree and a small clump of bushes 
beyond. He watched for some movement when pos- 
sibly one, two, or three of the captors might stroll off 
in search of game, and thus give him a chance to rush 
in, stab, and kill the remaining ones, release the pris- 
oner, and escape before the others returned; but no 
such chance came. 

Two or three times, while he was changing his 
position, he broke a dry branch, or in some way made 
some slight noise, and the Indians stopped whatever 
they were doing, at a warning word from one of them, 
and stood like statues, listening intently, looking here, 
and there, as if they were being made aware by their 
instincts of some one about them. There was no 
doubt in Lone Arrow’s mind but that they were sensi- 
tive of his presence, and he feared they would insti- 
tute a rigid search, that could not fail to result in his 
discovery. 

Once, on one of these occasions, one of them 
started up as if to go off into the woods, in search of 
something, but before he had gone far, a noise 
attracted his attention that appeared to come from 


BARBARA; 


309 


among the branches of the trees in an opposite direc- 
tion, and his thoughts were drawn away from what- 
ever he had in mind. Turning, the Indian had 
exclaimed, “Siak sagjalli” — “Noise up above. ” And 
Lone Arrow crouched still closer to the ground and 
against the tree — so closely and so well hidden that 
no one save an Indian could possibly have fotmd him, 
unless they had stumbled over his body. But it cau- 
tioned him to be more careful ; for it was a mofnent 
when he was almost discovered. He had evidently 
made some noise that they had heard, and they were 
filled with suspicion after that. 

He could see and study well just how the Lieuten- 
ant was fastened, and he noticed that the Indians kept 
some one of them close to him all the time. The 
hope that they might go out to look for game disap- 
peared, altogether, when they began to prepare some- 
thing to eat over the fire, and of which they failed to 
offer the Lieutenant any. Lone Arrow now settled 
himself down to await the coming of darkness, and as 
it began to grow dim twilight he found it necessary to 
get from behind the tree and the bushes, as they 
began to obstruct his view. To do this he was com- 
pelled to lie flat on the ground and pull himself along 
by slow degrees, putting out his hands in front of him 
and removing every twig or anything else that might 
make a noise as his body passed over it. At last he 
stationed himself not forty feet away from the group, 
and could hear every word they said. They talked of 
the prisoner, and of what they intended doing with 
him. If they remained where they were until morn- 
ing it was probable that others would come along. 


310 


BARBARA : 


either from the Maumee or the Sandusky, and in that 
case, they would have the sport of compelling the 
captive to run the gauntlet, and of putting him 
through other tortures. If left to themselves, and if 
for any reason they might be compelled to leave in a 
hurry, they would scalp and kill him, leaving his body 
to be devoured by the wild beasts. In any event, the 
prospects were not encouraging for the Lieutenant; 
but fortunately, he did not understand their talk and 
did not have that to worry his mind, whatever else 
was occupying it. 

After the Indians had prepared and eaten their 
meal, the fire was replenished, then left to burn low; 
yet it glowed brighter and more brilliantly as the 
darkness came down. And at last, it was only by its 
bright embers that he could keep track of their move- 
ments. 

Twice during their parley over what should be 
done with the prisoner, one of them approached him, 
and with uplifted hatchet, looked as if on the point of 
dispatching him at once. On each of these occasions 
the heart of Lone Arrow, as well, no doubt, as that of 
Beveridge, stood still, as he thought that at last the 
final moment had come and the final act was about to 
occur, and that soon all would be over. On neither of 
these occasions could Lone Arrow see a single muscle 
of the prisoner give even the slightest flinch ; and it 
was well that he did not, for it was decided that the 
Indians should hold him until the morning came. And 
then. Lone Arrow thought, it might have been done to 
awe him and keep him from making any attempt to 
escape through the night. 


BARBARA : 


311 


Long and slow were the hours in wearing away. 
Tedious and tortuous they were to Beveridge, bound 
as he was, almost unable to move a single joint of his 
body. Gradually, after a time, the Indians began 
preparing for the night. From their sitting postures, 
they slowly stretched themselves out, with their 
feet toward the low burning fire, yet all so close to 
the prisoner they could touch him with their hands. 
Once, twice, several times, Lone Arrow was sure 
they were all asleep. The talk had ceased. He was 
on the point of stepping forth from his concealment, 
and had stood with his back to a tree for some time, 
when one of the group sat bolt upright, as if he had 
been aroused by some noise, or was suspicious that all 
was not right. For a few minutes the Indian scarcely 
drew a breath, so sure was he that his tread would be 
discovered. Then followed another long wait. He 
was moving forward now, but had gone only a few 
steps, when up popped two of the savages. After 
peering off into the darkness, as silent as the gloom of 
death itself, they arose, approached the captive; 
examined the thongs that bound him; walked all 
around him ; then stood in a perfectly listless attitude 
for several minutes. At last, with a grunt, they sat 
down, facing the captive ; and when the patience of 
Lone Arrow was almost exhausted, they slowly 
stretched themselves out again, one at a time, as they 
had done before. 

And now came another long, weary wait. At last, 
stepping away from the tree, Lone Arrow raised his 
hands at full arms’ length above his head, holding the 
unsheathed knife in his right. Once, twice, three 


312 


BARBARA : 


times, did he do this ; each time dropping his hands to 
his thighs, before he was at all certain the Lieutenant 
saw the movements. Save for these gestures, it is 
doubtful if he could have been distinguished from the 
trees all about him. By the peculiar manner in which 
the bound man (at the third motion of the arms) 
raised his face Lone Arrow was confident he had been 
seen. 

It was probably over an hour since the Indians had 
made a movement. Now, Lone Arrow thought, was 
the time to act! Slowly, so cat-like, was his gradual 
approach, that moments were consumed before he had 
reached the flickering rays of the now smouldering 
fire. Then he stood fully revealed to Beveridge — or 
to the Indians, if they chanced to awake. 

Within his right hand he held the glittering knife, 
raised on a level with his eyes, and with the other he 
cautioned the Lieutenant to remain quiet. Creeping 
low, on bended knees, he reached the side of the near- 
est savage, the one next to Beveridge, and over whom 
he must step. Like a flash the knife descended — 
buried itself deep in the breast of the sleeping warrior, 
while with the left hand Lone Arrow covered the 
mouth of the victim, to smother anything like a groan 
that might possibly be made! 

The blow had been a sure one ! Only a relaxation 
of the muscles, and the Indian was dead. This done. 
Lone Arrow paused but a second to be sure that none 
of the others had been aroused. Then, securing the 
knife of the dead one, he stepped over him and 
reached the side of Beveridge. With slow and deter- 
mined strokes he cut the cords that bound his body to 


BARBARA ; 


313 


the tree. With an arm thrown about the Lieutenant, 
he cut the thongs that held his arms, and when they 
were loosened, they dropped to his side, almost help- 
less. The extra knife was put within his grasp. Just 
then one of the sleepers rolled over! Neither rescuer 
nor rescued moved a muscle— scarcely breathed! But 
that was all! The savage was asleep ! 

When the Lieutenant was released from the bonds, 
when his limbs and body were free, he came near fall- 
ing forward among the sleeping Indians, and would 
have done so, but for the arm of Lone Arrow, that was 
held fast about him, expecting just such a thing to 
occur. 

Tightening his grip about the almost helpless man, 
he lifted him bodily from the ground, carried him to 
the rear about forty feet, and sat him down against a 
tree for support. 

The long time the Lieutenant had been bound had 
caused his limbs to become almost lifeless, and it was 
only with the greatest efforts that he was now able to 
bear his weight upon his feet. Then, as a tremor ran 
through his frame, leaning over on Lone Arrow’s 
shoulder, as if for support, he whispered in his ear, in 
an almost inaudible voice : 

“My God! Lone Arrow! Barbara’s charm! It is 
about the dead Indian’s neck!’’ 

“S-h-h! I go fetch it!’’ 

Putting his hand out on Lone Arrow’s shoulder 
again, Beveridge said, with his lips close to the 
Indian’s ear: 

“No, I shall go myself! All I ask is that you wait 
here until I return!” 


314 


BARBARA : 


Slowly, at first, as if every effort made was one of 
pain, and as if doubtful of his limbs, Beveridge crept 
silently back, and at last reached the side of the dead 
Indian in safety, without arousing the others. Death 
was never more still than all about. From the neck 
of the dead one Beveridge took the string of beads, 
and was bringing himself to an upright attitude, when 
one of the other savages awoke ! It was all he ever 
did, however. Lone Arrow had followed the Lieuten- 
ant, but with such silent tread he was not aware of it, 
and before the awakening brave knew it, a knife had 
reached his heart, and with a groan, he rolled over, 
his arm striking the one next him as it fell. 

Desperation now nerved Beveridge to instant 
action as quick as that of his Indian friend. He had 
the opportunity now that he had prayed for while 
bound to the tree. It was thrust for thrust, now. As 
the savages sprang to their feet, dazed by the sudden 
awakening, and the surprise, they were in no shape to 
cope with two such desperate men, both of whom were 
now determined to exterminate their foe. 

Beveridge was perfectly calm, but acting with 
the rapidity of lightning. His first lunge with the 
knife found its lodgment deep in the side of the one 
nearest him. Another made a rush for the Lieuten- 
ant, with his knife in the air. In his mad fury his 
foot tripped on one of his fallen brethren, and before 
he was able to gather himself, Beveridge sent the 
knife into his back, just below the shoulder, and mor- 
tally wounded, the savage went to the ground to rise 
no more. As the Indian fell with a groan, Beveridge 
turned and saw his friend and rescuer in the grasp of 


BARBARA : 


315 


the only remaining one. To go to his assistance took 
but a second. He caught the Indian, a most powerful 
specimen of his race, about the neck with his arms, 
put one knee to the small of his back, and bent him 
over backward. As he did so, the three of them went 
to the ground in a heap, when a desperate struggle 
ensued, with Lone Arrow on top and the Lieutenant 
beneath them both. In the fall and tussle the Indian 
lost his knife, and before he could recover it, they had 
the advantage of him, and he was their prisoner. 

With some of the same thongs that had held the 
Lieutenant they slowly succeeded in binding him to 
the tree. When securely fastened, after finding the 
medal that had been dropped in the scuffle and conflict, 
piling fresh fuel on the fire, Lone Arrow turned to 
Beveridge and said : 

“Come! We go now! No time to lose! Some 
more be this way soon!” and he took the trail for the 
Maumee, knowing well enough that to go the other 
way meant all kinds of trouble. 

“Which way are you going?” inquired Beveridge, 
after they had gone a few rods. 

“To the Maumee,” replied the Indian. 

The Lieutenant stopped; stood still, and silent, for 
a few seconds, then said; “Lone Arrow, I am going 
the other way — to Fort Stephenson.” 

“No! you can’t go that way! Tecumtha warriors 
over there. We must go to the Maumee.” 

“Never! Not now, at least! I shall go alone— if 
I must. But, I shall not go to the Maumee, and leave 
Barbara there, in the midst of those savages! Come, 
and go with me. ” 


316 


BARBARA: 


“No! Lone Arrow knows best! We must go this 
way. The White Flame is safe, and in the mission 
house.” 

“How do you know that? Did you see her? How 
do you know she is safe now, even if she were when 
you were there?” 

“Lone Arrow don’t know that, but she was safe 
when he was there.” 

“Then, with you, or alone, I am going to the 
valley! Come, Lone Arrow, I know you will go with 
me!” 

“No, you can’t go that way. It means death!” 

“Then, death it is!” said Beveridge. “I am going 
to the valley, and there will not be enough savages to 
stop me!” 

And away he started — and alone. But he had not 
gone ten rods when the Indian, seeing his determina- 
tion, followed after him, and trudged along in silence, 
sullen and glum, for several miles. At last he said : 

“Ugh! White man damn fool. Indian damn fool, 
too. Lone Arrow the big damn fool! See! Warriors 
ahead! See! That is their fires! We must leave the 
trail, now!” 

And he pointed low down, and away in the dis- 
tance, were the faint gleamings of smouldering camp 
fires. Then, when the Lieutenant stopped, the Indian 
continued: 

“Come this way. We must leave the trail, and go 
another route. Fort about two miles away yet, and 
braves all around.” 

They changed their course, traveled to the south 
for a short time, and then at the Lieutenant’s request. 


BARBARA : 


317 


they sat down for a rest. They had tramped along 
through the darkest hours of the night, the guide 
keeping the way with his wonderful woodscraft intel- 
ligence. Now it was growing daylight. They had sat 
for some little time in quiet, the Indian as glum as 
ever, while occasionally Beveridge was moaning in a 
low voice, as if in deepest pain. Gradually, the guide 
had lifted himself to his feet, and his companion had 
attempted the same thing, when of a sudden he was 
grasped by the shoulder and pushed back. As Lone 
Arrow did this, he exclaimed, as he himself dropped 
to a stooping position : 

“Ugh! Keep still! Some one coming! Hear!” 

Beveridge obeyed — in fact, the touch of his guide 
had forced him to the ground as if he had no strength 
in his body. Instantly both were crouched close down 
behind some bushes, and soon they could hear distinctly 
approaching steps. Twigs were being broken, as if 
little regard were being paid toward concealment. 
There must be several, Beveridge thought, and that 
they were coming right in their direction. In a few 
moments, some six or eight savages passed by, not 
twenty feet away from where they lay. One of them 
was leading a horse, and on its back was a wounded 
Indian. The savages themselves were silent, but the 
tread of the animal was making much noise. It was 
so light that every one of them was plainly visible, 
and but for the clump of bushes, they must have dis- 
covered the Lieutenant and Lone Arrow. 

“Warriors!” whispered the guide in the Lieuten- 
ant’s ear, after they had gone by. “Some wounded 
brave, they taking away.” 


318 


BARBARA : 


They continued in their crouched position for some 
little time longer. Then, Beveridge stretched himself 
out on the ground, and putting out his hand, he said: 

“Lone Arrow, I can go no farther! 1 am ! 

Why, what is the matter with me ! Tam growing so 
weak! And I can scarcely see!” 

“Ugh! White man and Lone Arrow damn fools! 

Why we come this way! Why ’’ Then, when he 

looked at the man lying on the ground before him, he 
continued : ‘ ‘ Keep still ! Stay here ! 1 be back soon ! ’ ’ 

Snatching the hat off Beveridge’s head, away he 
went into the dense underbrush, leaving his companion 
alone and in a swoon. Torturing pains were racking 
his entire frame, yet not a word escaped his lips. He 
had no thought of how long he remained thus. When 
he came to. Lone Arrow was bending over him, bath- 
ing his face and temples with water he had brought 
back from somewhere, in the hat. 

“Feel better now?’’ asked the Indian, as Beveridge 
opened his eyes and began looking about. 

“Yes; but there is something wrong with me 
here.” And he placed his hand on his side as he spoke. 

“Where?” And in an instant Lone Arrow was 
down on both knees beside him, tearing open his 
waistcoat and shirt. When he put his hand to the 
Lieutenant’s side he found one of the short ribs 
broken, and almost protruding through the flesh. 

“Bad! When you do this?” 

“I guess the Indians are to blame for it,” he 
replied, as he groaned with the pain produced from 
the pressure of Lone Arrow’s hand. 

It did not take long, with the aid of his scalping 


BARBARA : 


319 


knife, for the Indian to convert some of the Lieuten- 
ant’s clothing into bandages, and in a short time they 
were bound around his injured body as tightly as they 
could be drawn. This had the effect of bringing the 
broken rib back into its proper position, and gave the 
Lieutenant great relief. But when he attempted to 
get on his feet, he felt as if his whole side was being 
torn loose from his body. 

“It is no use. Lone Arrow, I cannot go on. You 
will either have to wait for me, or go on alone, and 
without me.” 

“No; I not go on — not now. We wait, and you 
will feel better soon. ’ ’ 

For an hour and more they sat there — the Lieuten- 
ant propped up at the foot of a great tree, the Indian, 
in sullen silence, watching him with anxious gaze. It 
was well along into the forenoon, and the heavy and 
continual boom of cannon was borne to their ears with 
a ceaselessness that was aggravating to both Indian 
and white man. At last, when it had become almost 
unbearable to the Lieutenant, the Indian turned to 
him and asked: 

“Could you ride if you had a horse?” 

“Why, Lone Arrow, I don’t know. I must do 
something soon. It will not be safe to remain here 
much longer. Some one will stumble onto us before 
we are aware of it. Do you hear how steady the can- 
nonading is at the Fort?” 

“Yes; heard that all night. Lone Arrow said we 
must not come this way. Now, we must get to the 
Fort, some other way. Ugh! if we had a horse. You 
could ride. Then we go on. ” 


320 


BARBARA ; 


“But where could we expect to find one? Out here 
in the woods? Why, say, Lone Arrow! If we only 
had the one the Indians led by a few hours ago!’’ 

“You stay here, and I go fetch.’’ 

“What! Do you think you could find it? If you 
can, then we could make a dash through their lines, 
and possibly reach the Fort!” 

“Will you do that? Then, stay here, and I go see. 
May find horse. Don’t know, though. You stay till 
I come back?” 

“Yes; you go, and I shall remain here until you 
return. ” 

And away stole the Indian, out into the thicket, 
and was soon lost both to sight and sound. He was 
not long in finding the tracks made by the horse, and 
he followed it for an hour or more. At last, ahead of 
him, he sees a group, and near them the animal teth- 
ered and feeding at its leisure. Creeping close, he 
finds it has a saddle and bridle. Strange, the Indian 
thinks. Where could they have found it? Can it be 
they have met and killed some scout, and that this is 
his horse? No matter, now. It is a horse he is look- 
ing for. Slowly — oh, so extremely slow, as to make 
one weary to watch him— Lone Arrow crawls along 
the ground, hidden, almost by grass and low bushes. 
The group of warriors are busy with their cooking and 
their wounded companion, and it gives him an oppor- 
tunity to creep up to the animal, and loosen the strap 
from about its leg. Then slowly, he begins slipping 
backward, inch by inch, leading the horse away, but 
permitting it to graze as it did before. 

At last he has it out of sight, behind some bushes. 


BARBARA : 


321 


In an instant he is on its back, and away he dashes at 
a reckless speed. Toward the Lieutenant? No — 
toward the Maumee; and he keeps his course until he 
has reached a stream. Into it he rides, and along its 
course he keeps for a mile and more. Then, when he 
thinks it safe, he turns his course to the east, and at 
last comes riding into the clump of bushes where the 
Lieutenant lay in agony, listening to the roar of 
cannon and musketry. Slowly rolling himself over, 
as the Indian drops off the animal, he exclaims: 

“Why! Great God! Lone Arrow — that is my 
horse! Where did you find him! See! That is my 
saddle, just as I left it when captured!” 

Sure enough, it was the animal the Lieutenant had 
ridden from Seneca Town, when he started for Fort 
Stephenson, and from which he had been torn by his 
captors. When they had dragged him off into the 
woods, these other Indians had, no doubt, taken the 
horse, and were yet wandering about with it in the 
rear of the main body of the army. Even his pistols 
were in the holsters. 

“Now, Lone Arrow, help me to get on its back. 
Make me fast and secure in the saddle ; and with the 
help of God, 1 shall reach the Fort. But, what of you? 
I shall not leave you!’ 

“Oh, I go, too. You ride — I run along side. Yes, 
I keep up, ride as fast as you can.” 

It was with great difficulty that Beveridge was at 
last seated in the saddle, and with the hitching strap 
made as secure as possible. Then they arranged to 
go forward as cautiously, and as much under cover, as 
possible ; find an opening through the line of Indians in 
21 


322 


BARBARA : 


their front; then make a dash toward the Fort, and 
trust entirely to luck to make the ride in safety. They 
were now southwest of the mission house, and the 
Indian knew that under cover of the timber they 
might pass to within thirty rods of the fortifications, 
and from there it would be an open space. Across 
that opening they would have to go — possibly under 
the fire from scores of muskets. It must be done, 
and they prepared for it with nerves drawn to their 
highest tension. It is not known if the Indian 
breathed a prayer, but as they came up, close to the 
line of warriors that were deployed along the outer 
edge of the timber, Beveridge, did, and then took a 
deadly grip upon the bridle reins. Faint and sick at 
heart as he was, he drew himself up his full height on 
the horse and looked to the front, to view the situa- 
tion. 

“There! Lone Arrow! Just where I point! See! 
There is an opening in their line! Now, may God 
help us! Prepare for the worst! Cling to the saddle, 
for I shall ride as if the devil was after us! Are you 
all ready? Then, here we go!” 

Leaning well forward, with his face close to the 
horse’s mane, he gave it the spurs, and away they 
went — both men bareheaded, the steed flying like the 
wind. Just as they passed through the outer line of 
the warriors, a brave sprang up out of the brush and 
made a grab for the bridle rein, on the opposite side 
from Lone Arrow. When he reached out his hand, 
Beveridge let go a discharge from one of the pistols, 
and the savage fell dead in front of the horse’s feet 
as it leaped by. 


BARBARA: 


323 


They are now in the broad open, with the Fort 
before them. A dozen shots are fired at them as they 
fly along, as if on the wings of the wind. Lone Arrow 
is still clinging to the saddle, using the horse for 
shelter. 

Bullets are flying all about them. One has struck 
the animal, and it appears to have doubled its speed. 
Another has hit Lone Arrow, but it is his disengaged 
arm. 

As yet Beveridge is safe; but they have only made 
half their way across the open space. From the dis- 
charge of musketry, it is doubtful if they ever reach 
the Fort alive. 

May the god of battles be with them ! 

Hark! The soldiers within the Fort have seen 
them, and are sending up cheer after cheer, as they 
ride across the opening under a murderous fire from 
the Indians. 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. 


“Cannon to the right of them! 

Cannon to the left of them! 

Cannon in front of them! 

Volleyed and thundered!” 

— Tennyson. 


At the time the scouts had reached Fort Stephen 
son, with orders from General Harrison, instructing 
Major Croghan to abandon his position and march to 
Seneca Town or Huron, the Major had just closed a 
conference with his officers, and it had been their 
unanimous opinion that to attempt to retreat then, 
under the existing circumstances, meant almost sure 
annihilation. Already the Indians were all about 
them, in the cover of the woods; and at the first sign 
of a retreat they would pounce down on them in great 
numbers. The Major, therefore, decided to remain in 
the Fort, and this decision he had at once sent back 
to his commander, the General. The reply was brief; 
it was short and to the point, and the spirit suited the 
men about him; for in their minds it demonstrated the 
courage of the man they would soon have to fight 
under. 


32 ^ 


BARBARA: 


325 


“We have determined to hold this place^; and by- 
heaven we will. “ 

This, to his commander! The commanding gen- 
eral of the army! In the face of his positive orders to 
retreat! After it had been gone a short time, it began 
to appear, even to the Major, as rank insubordination. 
It had not been intended as such. But it looked 
very much that way to Harrison, as well. He, there- 
fore, at once directed Colonel Wells to proceed, with 
an escort, to Fort Stephenson, and relieve the Major of 
his command. In fact. Colonel Wells, with an escort 
of troopers in command of Colonel Ball, did start for 
the Fort. When they reached the vicinity of the 
present village of Ballsville, just south of Fremont, 
they fell into an ambush laid for them by the Indians, 
and after a fierce skirmish, in which a number were 
killed and wounded on both sides, the troopers fell 
back toward Seneca Town, feeling they were unable 
to reach the Fort with their present numbers. For 
many years a large elm tree marked the spot of this 
struggle of the troopers and the Indians. On its body 
were seventeen deep notches cut with a hatchet or 
axe, and it was said they denoted the number of 
savages that were slain. 

In the meantime, while this effort was being made 
to reach the Fort, General Harrison had again heard 
from the Major, by scouts ; and then, more fully real- 
izing the exact situation, he changed his mind, and 
instead, on Colonel Wells’ return to headquarters, set 
about to reinforce the Fort and aid the Major in a 
struggle that was sure to soon take place. But rein- 
forcements were never sent. 


326 


BARBARA : 


As soon as the Indians that had marched across the 
country began appearing in the woods, to the west of 
the Fort, Father Jacquese, on the advice of Major 
Croghan, and the male members of the Glenn creek 
settlers, took the women and children into the mission 
house, fully believing that the “Sign of the Cross” 
would protect them. Those below the Fort sought 
shelter within the defenses. Once this was done, and 
their safety assured, Beaumont, who had just returned 
from Canada, went with the other trappers and 
offered their services to the commandant, in any 
capacity they could be useful. 

It was not until the evening of July 31st, that Proc- 
tor and his army sailed up the Sandusky bay, and pro- 
ceeded toward Lower Sandusky. Early in the after- 
noon of August I St, their boats, three in number, 
were seen from the Fort, rounding the bend in the 
river, almost a mile away, and then proceeding on up 
the stream, until opposite the island near the Rawson 
creek. There they came to anchor, and in the face of 
shot and shell from the Fort, made a landing. During 
the afternoon several cannon and two howitzers were 
taken from the vessels and put in position to open fire 
at a moment’s notice. 

Every hour of the time after the Major was certain 
the enemy was coming, he kept his men busy adding 
to the strength of the fortifications, in every way pos- 
sible. Not a thing that could be done in that regard 
was overlooked, that in Croghan’s mind, would aid 
them in holding out against superior numbers. He 
began to feel that he had reached the turning point in 
his young military career; and, if he would have it for 


BARBARA: 


327 


weal and not for woe, he must take advantage of 
every possible opportunity. Just what he thought his 
prospects were for success, he wisely kept to himself, 
further than to give to the men of his command all the 
encouragement he could show them. He well foresaw 
that he had to cope with an army that was greatly his 
superior in numbers, but he doubted if they all pos- 
sessed the true fighting qualities of his little handful 
of men. 

At once, that afternoon, the cannon and howitzers 
of the English forces were planted and prepared to 
open fire on the Fort; and while this was being done, 
Proctor proceeded to get his attacking columns in posi- 
tion. These were composed of four hundred English 
Regulars of the Forty-first Regiment, and several hun- 
dred Indians. Proctor commanded the white troops 
in person; Dixon, of the Royal Artillery, commanded 
a force of Mackinaw and Northern Indians: while 
Tecumtha had charge of about two thousand Indians 
of the Wabash, Illinois, and St. Josephs, together with 
some of the Chippewas, Ottawas, and Pottawatomies. 
These last were located up on the hill, west of the Fort, 
on the road leading to Fort Meigs, and to the south- 
west, toward Seneca Town, to prevent reinforcements 
from either direction. 

Thus, having disposed of his forces, so as to pre- 
vent Major Croghan and his small army of one hundred 
and sixty-five men from retreating, or from receiving 
any help, Proctor sent a Colonel Elliott, accompanied 
by Captain Chambers and Captain Dixon, with a flag 
of truce, to demand the surrender of the garrison. 
When the party was about half way across the open 


328 


BARBARA : 


Space between the brow of the hill, coming from the 
northwest, Major Croghan instructed Second Lieuten- 
ant Shipp to act as his representative, and told him, 
that under no circumstances, whatever, was he to 
listen to any terms of surrender. As Shipp prepared 
to leave the Fort on his mission, he asked that, as he 
proceeded, and while he was in conference with the 
British officers, he be kept covered with the solitary 
cannon, and at the least sign of treachery he would 
give a signal, and that the gunner should then blow 
the whole party into eternity. And, it is stated, his 
request came near being complied with, and carried 
into execution. 

Shipp met the English commission about half way 
across the open ground, near where the courthouse 
now stands, and when the salutations usual on such 
occasions had been gone through with. Colonel Elliott 
proceeded to say he had been instructed to demand 
the immediate surrender of the Fort and its forces. 
He spoke of the effusion of blood that would be spared 
if a surrender were made, for, with their greatly supe- 
rior army it must eventually follow. The Lieutenant 
listened to the Colonel with all due respect, and then, 
when he was done, replied: 

“My commander and the garrison direct me to say 
that we are determined to defend the Fort to the last 
extremity, and bury ourselves in its ruins, rather than 
surrender it to any force whatever.” 

‘ “Look at our immense body of Indians,” spoke up 
Captain Dixon. “They cannot be restrained from 
massacreing the whole garrison in the event of our 
undoubted success. ’ ’ 


BARBARA ; 


329 


To which the third one, Captain Chambers (who 
carried the flag), responded: “Our success is assured!” 

“What a pity such a fine young officer as you, and 
as your commander is reported to be, should fall into 
the hands of the Indians,” said Dixon. “For God’s 
sake, surrender, and save a massacre that will surely 
follow resistance!” 

Shipp was not touched by these (apparently tender) 
appeals, and which were intended to appear as ones of 
mercy. He had had some experiences with some of 
these same Indians before, and knew how little regard 
was paid to promises for the safety of prisoners of 
war. And with an air of indifference, he replied: 

“When the Fort is taken there will be none left to 
massacre. It will not be given up as long as a man is 
left to defend it. ” 

“Then, our conference is ended,” said Colonel 
Elliott, as he turned to leave and go back to the 
British lines. 

Then as Lieutenant Shipp also turned toward the 
Fort, an Indian sprang out from a clump of bushes 
near him and attempted to wrest the sword from his 
hands. In an instant, in his indignation, Shipp made 
a lunge at the savage, and would have killed him, but 
for the interference of Captain Dixon, who seized the 
savage by the shoulder and thrust him to one 
side. Then, when he tendered an apology to Shipp, 
who was boiling with rage, the latter replied: 

“It is well that you do! For, see, we are all of us 
covered by that six-pound cannon yonder, loaded with 
shot and shell, and we may at any instant be blown 
into the presence of our Maker!” 


330 


BARBARA : 


It was true as Shipp had said; for within the Fort 
the gunner stood, with heated iron in his hand, and 
when the Indian sprang out, he had raised it to fire 
the cannon, but was restrained by the Major telling 
him Shipp had not yet given the signal agreed upon. 

When Shipp spoke, and pointed toward the Fort, 
and Dixon saw the frowning muzzle of the gun, he 
turned pale, and exclaimed: “My God!” Then each 
party turned and went their way. All this was wit- 
nessed by the Major, who, when the incident occurred 
as related, cried out to his Lieutenant: 

“Come in, Shipp, and we will blow the whole 
damned lot of them into hell!” 

As soon as the British officers reached their lines 
and reported to Proctor the result of their conference, 
his cannon opened fire on the Fort, and the musketry 
firing was begun between the troops within the forti- 
fication and the Indians and British without. All the 
remainder of the afternoon, and all through the long 
night an incessant cannonading was kept up, by the 
British with their three six-pounders and their howitz- 
ers, and on the part of the Fort with the solitary gun. 
But so rapidly was the gun within the fortifications 
handled, being transferred from one porthole to 
another, with such rapidity, as to carry the impression 
with the British forces that there were three or four 
within the enclosure instead of the one. 

Along after midnight the cannon in the Fort ceased 
responding to the English guns; but not so with theirs. 
They continually pounded away all through the weary 
night. Every moment their shot and shell were rat- 
tling about the Fort, and the men inside were watch- 


BARBARA: 


331 


ing to see what effect it was having. If a weak spot 
were discovered, they proceeded at once to strengthen 
it, and make it strong, in spite of the continual firing 
of the enemy. First here, then there, a solid shot 
would strike, and give the whole structure a jar. The 
range was good, but somehow it all had little effect. 

Before daylight came, on the 2d of August, Private 
Brown, who was in command of the gun squad, had 
the cannon moved to the place already prepared for 
it in the bastion, on the west side of the Fort, at the 
point where Croghan had made sure in his own mind 
that the final attack would be made. From there it 
had complete range of the ravine referred to, and 
there it remained in silence until the proper moment 
came for it to speak in thunder tones of death and 
destruction. 

Little or no sleep was indulged in by any one inside 
the Fort that night of cannonading. Too well the 
men knew the imminent peril besetting them on every 
side, and they were ready and fully prepared for an 
attack at any moment. When daylight came at last, 
that little band of men had become so thoroughly 
nerved for the struggle, that in their own minds, the 
results of the day were already fixed. It was to save 
the Fort, or die in the effort. There was no other 
thought but that and victory. 

Nor had the British been idle during the night 
Although they had kept up an incessant fire of their 
artillery, when it became light enough to see. Major 
Croghan discovered that their six-pounders, three in 
number, had been brought to the top of the hill, and 
were stationed at short range; their location being 


332 


BARBARA : 


near the brow of the hill, between what in later years 
were the residences of Dr. L. Q. Rawson and James 
Justice. Very early in the morning they opened their 
fi‘re, and it was evidently with the hope that at that 
short range, the Fort would soon be compelled to 
surrender. But, when Proctor awoke, that morning, 
he, too, was undoubtedly surprised, at the small 
amount of damage his cannonading had accomplished 
during the hours of the night. For, as far as could be 
seen, not a splinter had been disturbed. 

All forenoon on the 2d, the firing was kept up from 
the British cannon and howitzers. But the Fort made 
no response. Its cannon was silent. Whether it was 
disabled, or what, the enemy had no way of ascertain- 
ing. In the commencement, the rapidity of its firing 
had led to the belief that there were three or four; 
and now there was no reply whatever. The English 
officers could not understand it. The Indians, too. 
were becoming restless and impatient for scalps; for 
so far they had accomplished nothing. Never did one 
of them show his head, or his body, outside of cover 
but the rifle shots of the Kentucky boys would seek 
him out, and their bullets find a lodgment in him 
somewhere. It was growing tiresome to them, as 
well as to the British commander, who could not see 
that he was making any headway. 

With this steady cannonading on their part, all of 
which had done no damage to the fortifications, what- 
ever, and with the continual sharp shooting from within 
the Fort, the long day was fast being consumed; was 
slowly drawing to a close, and nothing, apparently, 
had been achieved. Their soldiers and the Indians 


BARBARA : 


333 


dare not show themselves; if they did, the long range 
rifles from the Fort were sure to reach them, and they 
were carried to the rear, wounded or killed. While, 
on the other hand, the British began to feel that they 
had injured no one. It was discouraging work, and 
Proctor was realizing from the restless spirits of his 
men that they would not stand another all-night siege; 
that other methods must be put in operation. Beside, 
he feared that at any moment the Fort might receive 
reinforcements, from one direction or the other, and 
they were likely to come, he thought, in such numbers 
as to put his army to flight, if not annihilate it. 

About the Fort there was no apparent uneasiness. 
The rifle-men were constantly at work, picking off 
whomsoever showed himself. They were keeping up a 
steady volley, almost; and it must be, Proctor began 
to think, they are awaiting the arrival of help, when a 
grand cannonading would be opened, and troops 
would pour in on him from every side. Inside the 
Fort no aid was looked for, nor expected; and why 
none was sent, was a mystery even to Proctor, for 
since his arrival there had been plenty of time. It 
has, as well, always been a query to others; for there 
were forces— and to spare— at Fort Meigs, as well as at 
other points within easy reach. Proctor, after a con- 
sultation, decided to adopt other and more severe 
methods. About four o’clock in the afternoon, his 
artillery firing was all concentrated on the northwest 
angle of the Fort, just as Major Croghan had suspected 
it finally would be, as reports that had been given to 
the English officers made that appear as the weaker 
part of the whole structure. For days the Major’s 


334 


BARBARA : 


efforts had been to strengthen it; and now, when the 
crucial hour had come, he was pleased to see it with- 
standing the great onslaught in a most noble manner. 
But he kept the men steadily at work, still further 
adding to its endurance. 

All through the day rifle shots had been reaching 
the interior of the Fort, evidently coming from some 
elevated position, but where no one had been able to 
make out. The shots had done no harm, as yet; but 
they were annoying, and one or two of the men were 
set to discover if possible where they came from, Beau- 
mont among the number. When the Frenchman 
entered the Fort he had brought with him a long and 
peculiarly constructed rifle, one that several of the 
soldiers had examined with closest scrutiny, as they 
had never before seen one of its like. With this gun 
in his hands he had settled down in a corner, out of the 
way, to solve the mystery of the stray shots. Finally, 
his keen eye detected (or he thought it did) a slight 
puff of smoke, away up in the very top of an immense 
elm tree, standing just beyond the brow of the hill, 
almost directly north of the Fort, and back of what 
afterward became the home of Judge Justice. He 
leveled his long rifle, and delayed so long that those 
who were watching his movements thought perhaps 
he had fallen asleep. After his aim had become 
settled and deliberate, he fired. Several, including 
the Major, who for the moment stood watching for the 
effect of the shot, were surprised, in an instant, to see 
a form tumbling from the top of the tree toward the 
ground and disappear behind the brow of the hill. 
The distance from the Fort was so great as to make 


BARBARA: 


335 


the act appear incredible; but as the stray shots 
ceased, it was evident the right man had been hit. 
For many years after the tree stood as a landmark, 
pointed out to the stranger, and the story of the won- 
derful shot retold. 

Just then, when the successful shot of the French- 
man was being discussed by the men within the Fort, 
a soldier who was keeping a lookout from the south- 
west corner of the fortifications, cried out: 

“By all the holy powers of heaven and earth! 
See that courier riding this way! What can it mean? 
Oh! How he does ride!” 

“Yes; and there is an Indian by his side!” said 
another, who had sprang up beside the first speaker. 
“In the name of heaven! What does it mean? They 
can never reach the Fort! Watch the fire they are 
under!” 

“Yes, they will!” sang out another. “They are 
half way across the open ! See that animal run! And 
the Indian! Is he tied to the saddle? One is a white 
man! See how he rides, now, with his head up!” 

“Hurrah!” cried a dozen voices. 

“Great God! It is Lieutenant Beveridge!” said 
Major Croghan. “Prepare to open the gate and let 
them in! I wonder what can bring him here at such 
a time as this!” 

A squad of soldiers rush to the gate prepared to 
throw it open, while others watch the mad race for 
life. As they come up the gates are thrown wide 
apart, and as the foaming steed strikes the embank- 
ment of earth, it goes down, dead, with its rider; 
while the Indian, who until now has clung to the sad- 






336 


I 




IHE RIDE TO THE FORT. 




BARBARA : 


337 


die, stumbles, falls, and in his headlong rush, goes 
over into the ditch. Under a galling fire from the 
savages, who. are still keeping the men in range, two 
soldiers rush out, and grasping the Lieutenant by the 
arm drag him into the Fort. And the gates close 
again. 

While the surgeon is attending to Beveridge, the 
Indian is taken in through a secret passage to the 
ditch, and he, too, is cared for. Within an hour Lieu- 
tenant Beveridge is up, and on his feet, and declares 
himself ready for service. He has learned from Beau- 
mont that Barbara is safe, and his injuries are forgot- 
ten. The surgeon insists he must keep quiet for a 
time. His examination of the Lieutenant has shown 
that not only has he a broken rib, but that his body is 
covered with bruises, so completely that it is impossi- 
ble to say where his flesh is the worst. His treatment 
at the hands of the Indians, when they had searched 
him and relieved him of the medallion, would have 
killed a less robust man. Yet in his excitement and 
zeal, he felt, in his own mind, fitted to go on and 
assume the duties of a soldier. It was only by the 
strongest persuasion and insistence that he could be 
kept in a quiet condition; but at last his overwrought 
nerves gave out, and with the aid of opiates, he finally 
fell into a sleep, from which he was not aroused until 
late the next morning. Then he was much revived, 
and late in the forenoon in a condition where he could 
call on the Major and pay his addresses to him. 

And now, at the moment when all their fierce can- 
nonading was being directed at the northwest corner, 
and when they seemed determined on making a breach 


338 


BARBARA: 


in the defenses, a detachment of grenadiers, number- 
ing about two hundred, was seen marching from below 
the hill on the north side, around the west of the Fort, 
passing the mission house, and coming back toward 
the defense on the south side, making an almost com- 
plete detour. At the same time this movement was 
being made, and when the body of men had reached 
the extreme southern limit, another detachment, of 
the same number, was discovered advancing in two 
columns from the north, directly toward the Fort, 
coming up under cover of the smoke of the cannon, 
that at times completely enveloped them. While 
these movements were being carried into effect the 
cannonading from the British guns was most terrific. 
Still the Fort remained silent, save for the now con- 
tinuous rifle shots, and these were most galling in 
their effect on the advancing column. As it would 
come up out of the smoke the Kentucky riflemen 
would pour whole volleys into its ranks. For a time 
the men faltered, as if to fall back. And then the order 
to advance was given. 

When the first column that was coming from the 
north was within about three hundred feet of the outer 
works, at the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Short, 
it entered the deep gully leading up through the hill, 
evidently to get under the cover of its banks, and if 
possible thereby escape the deadly shots of the rifle- 
men from within the stockade. For a time they were 
out of range of the rifles, but steadily marching 
toward a worse and more destructive fire. 

While these columns were advancing from the two 
directions, every cannon and mortar was doing its 


BARBARA: 


339 


worst, in an effort to reduce the Fort to a wreck, and 
open a place through which the advancing force from 
the north might possibly enter. Yet, within, all was 
silent, save for the shots of the riflemen. There was 
no response from the cannon. It was ominous and 
aggravating to the enemy. 

Up the gully came the British grenadiers, and up 
from the south advanced the other column. Soon, 
surely, some response would be made. Not yet, how- 
ever. Up through the gully still come the British 
soldiers. At last, when they were in full and open 
range, all unexpectedly, a false port was thrown open 
in the bastion. Out ran the muzzle of the six-pounder, 
and before the enemy knew of its presence, it belched 
forth a death-dealing discharge that fairly swept the 
men from off the earth ! 

It was a most complete surprise! The column 
staggered, and a movement was made as if they would 
fall back! But just then, Colonel Short cried out to 
his men: 

“Cut away the pickets, my brave boys! Let’s give 
the damned Yankees no quarter!” 

The men were at close range now; and it was then 
the cannon gave forth again its missiles of death and 
destruction! And the English officer, at the head of 
the column, fell in the midst of his men, mortally 
wounded, as he uttered the words of command and 
breathed his execrations on the Yankees. The ditch 
was filled with the dead and dying! 

Then, the second column came up within range of 
the cannon! The men advanced as if drawn along by 
some strange vortex, some unseen power. As they 


340 


BARBARA: 


came rushing up out of the depression, it was to meet - 
face to face with death; for then the porthole flew 
open, and again came another discharge of the cannon 
— almost in their very breasts! 

The slaughter was sickening! It was terrible! 
The men faltered! Their commander was dead! 
There was not left a man to lead them ! They hesi- 
tated! The porthole is closed again! Another dis- 
charge is feared! They at last turn and flee down the 
gully! They cannot stand another slaughter like 
that! And they seek safety in flight! 

Then, on the instant of the last fire, the cannon 
was rushed from its place in the bastion, across the 
enclosure, and opened its discharge of death upon the 
advancing column now coming from the south ! The 
enemy is at close range, and under this enfilading fire 
of the cannon great holes are torn in their ranks! 
Before they are able to realize it, or reform their 
broken ranks, another discharge meets them! And 
then, under a most seething fire from the soldiers 
inside, who are now playing havoc with their rifles, 
this column turns and seeks shelter in the woods, from 
out which they had but so recently advanced! 

It is now about six o’clock, and, as the sun begins 
to sink down into the west, from which direction 
relief had been looked for all day, the conflict ends! 
That small body of men, one hundred and sixty-five 
in number, with one six-pound cannon, had for thirty- 
six hours withstood the siege of two thousand Indians 
and four hundred British Regulars, with six cannons 
and howitzers, and had at last driven them off the 
field! The rapid handling of the single gun within 


BARBARA : 


341 


the Fort had done most effective work. It had im- 
pressed the enemy with its triplicate appearance, and 
had made them believe the interior of the fortifica- 
tion was bristling with six-pounders. 

It was a most disorderly retreat that followed. 
Those killed or wounded were left in the ditch and 
about the field to the south, while those who were 
able, crawled back to their lines as best they could. 
And the Indians — well, as soon as the destructive war- 
fare began, they betook themselves to the friendly 
shelter of the distant timber! 

Among the dead and dying, left in the ditch to the 
north of the Fort, were Colonel Short, Lieutenant 
Gordon, and Laussaussiege, one of the commanders of 
the Indian forces. Captain Muier and Lieutenant 
McIntyre had been wounded, but made their escape. 
No less than twenty-five privates were killed and 
twenty-six wounded. All had been left where they 
fell, while many others slightly injured had managed 
to escape, back to their lines. All these beside what 
had been killed and wounded among those coming up 
from the south, and left on the field in the flight. 

When Colonel Short had fallen, mortally wounded, 
he raised a white handkerchief on the point of his 
sword, and begged for that mercy he had but the 
instant before sworn he would refuse to the “damned 
Yankees.” 

The whole loss to the brave men within the Fort, 
was one killed, and seven slightly wounded. The one 
killed was Beaumont, who, in his excitement and 
eagerness for revenge for his insults while a prisoner, 
had shown himself too carelessly, and had been shot in 


342 


BARBARA : 


the head by one of the Regulars coming up from the 
south. The entire loss to the enemy, as best it could 
be ascertained, in killed, wounded and prisoners, was 
one hundred and twenty. 

And now the struggle was over! Could it be pos- 
sible, the men in the Fort asked themselves! Had 
they really accomplished such a victory? Was it true 
that the enemy had withdrawn, and had they given 
up the conflict? And then, great shouts went up 
from the men within the fortifications — shouts that 
made the very air quiver with their echoes! 

During the night, while it was raining, while great 
peals of thunder shook the earth, and streaks of light- 
ning lit up the murky darkness, while the men within 
the Fort were passing out through a tunnel under the 
defenses and were taking in the dead and wounded of 
their enemy, Proctor’s soldiers were going about the 
field outside, with lanterns, picking up those that had 
been left behind in their precipitate retreat. About 
three o’clock on the morning of the 3d of August, 
crest-fallen and humiliated as they never had been 
before, the entire force, save a few straggling bands 
of Indians, dropped down the river, leaving behind 
one of their vessels that in some way had been disa- 
bled, and that was loaded with clothing and military 
stores. 

What induced the hurried departure was never 
known. Possibly the arrival of Beveridge and the 
Indian. If it were in fear of reinforcements approach- 
ing, then Proctor was deceived, for none came. None 
had even been started. He had gone, and that in 
haste ; and the men within the Fort were satisfied. 


BARBARA: 


343 


And as he took his course down the stream, huzzah 
after huzzah reached his ears to add if possible to his 
chagrin. 

The dead and wounded left behind were properly 
cared for; the dead buried, and the wounded, not too 
badly injured, nursed back to life. From some of 
these it was learned that if the Fort had been reduced, 
and a surrender made, the Indians would have been 
permitted to work out a most terrible revenge on those 
that should have been left. Possibly not a man, 
woman or child would have remained, or been saved 
from their bloody hands. Probably, not even the 
mission house would have escaped destruction. For 
once the massacre had been inaugurated, there would 
have been no staying hand! 

Unless — (and this was told by the Reverend Father, 
long after the siege of the Fort was over, and when 
he was taking his departure to renew his work in 
other fields) — unless the occupants therein had been 
spirited away through a passage that none knew of 
but himself, and that could not have been found until 
after the destruction of the building. And possibly 
not even then, as the debris would have concealed it 
from view. It was owing to this secret passage, and 
the understanding Father Jacquese had with the 
young braves of the neutral nations, the warriors of 
Lone Arrow’s people, that he so willingly gave shelter 
to the people, and was so confident of their safety. 

Standing near the brow of the hill, south of the 
Fort, as the mission house did, it had afforded a splen- 
did opportunity at some time in its existence for the 
construction of a secret passageway beneath the 


344 


BARBARA : 


floors leading down the hill and coming out in the 
midst of a cluster of hazel bushes, so thick in their 
growth as to discourage a rabbit in making a passage 
through them. And there, through all the long siege, 
had lain hidden from view (even Lone Arrow knowing 
nothing of the affair) a half dozen braves, ready to 
serve a purpose should it become necessary. This 
action on the part of the Indians was known only to 
the priest at the time. Fortunately, the services they 
had offered to perform were not required of them, 
and after the British had left the valley, the people 
returned to their homes in safety. Had the massacre 
ever begun, it is more than probable that the Indians 
residing on the opposite side of the river would have 
raised up and entered a protest in behalf of the people, 
and a desperate struggle would have ensued between 
' them and the tribes under Proctor. 

From the beginning of the advance of the British 
Regulars on the Fort, and until their retreat, the con- 
flict had not lasted more than an hour and a half. The 
siege, however, had been of thirty-six hours’ duration. 
Then came the victory for as gallant a commander and 
as brave a lot of men as ever attempted to uphold the 
banner of American freedom. And at what a cost to 
the enemy; and at so slight a loss to the Americans! 

Proctor returned to Canada at once, never again to 
attempt an invasion of the Sandusky valley. So far 
as the war was concerned, the settlers of that region 
thereafter lived in peace and quiet. 

For his valor and his undaunted courage, Major 
Croghan was highly commended by his commander; 
and although it was slow, in later years congress 


BARBARA : 


345 


voted him a gold medal, in commemoration of his 
noble conduct on that eventful day, and at last com- 
missioned him a General in the regular army. The 
ladies of Chillicothe, less slow than congress to recog- 
nize his important service to the country, gave him a 
most elegant sword, highly ornamented with pearls 
and precious stones, and in the face of all the rancor 
of jealous brother officers, proclaimed him the crown- 
ing hero of the war of that year; while his name is 
yet spoken of throughout the valley as the saviour of 
the homes of the settlers of Old Lower Sandusky. 

It was a remarkable victory in many ways. With 
a fortification considered indefensible ; with a small 
handful of men; with but one cannon; with a youthful 
commander, barely twenty-one years of age ; ordered 
by the General of the army to vacate his position and 
destroy all the supplies; and then left to contend with 
a force outnumbering him by over two thousand, and 
with six times as many cannon — while within easy 
reach were plenty of reinforcements — there is little 
wonder that it was considered a phenomenal victory! 
Withstanding a siege of thirty-six hours’ duration, 
killing, wounding and taking prisoners, almost as 
many of the enemy as there were men in the Fort ; and 
losing but one killed. Where was its equal? 

Had Major Croghan failed, he would have been 
cashiered — turned out of the army, in disgrace ! But 
he won, achieved a victory the most glorious, and one 
that will never be forgotten, in the Sandusky valley, 
at least. 


CHAPTER NINETEEN. 


“To weary hearts, to mourning homes, 
God’s meekest angel gently comes; 

No power have they to banish pain, 

Or give us back our lost again.” 

— Whittier. 


Just as soon as Lieutenant Beveridge was permitted 
to don his clothes, the next morning after the struggle 
(even then against the most earnest protests of the 
surgeon), he repaired at once to Major Croghan’s 
headquarters, to offer his excuses for his not being 
able to reach the Fort sooner, and to explain why. 
The dispatches he started with he still possessed, but 
now that the struggle was over they were of no im- 
portance. 

The Major, himself, was in a most excellent humor. 
He praised the men; spoke most feelingly of their 
heroic determination to resist the enemy, and in every 
way gave them all the credit for the victory they had 
so stubbornly contended for and won. Not a word for 
himself. 

“But for these brave men; but for their determina- 
tion to win, or go down in a defeat, as grand as the 

346 


BARBARA : 


347 


victory they have won, the Fort would have fallen into 
the hands of the enemy. Beveridge, a nobler set of 
men never surrounded an American officer!” 

He learned of the Major that none of the settlers 
had been disturbed, as they were either in the Fort or 
in the mission house during the siege. He was told, 
too, that the only man that had been killed in the con- 
flict was Beaumont, and the intelligence went through 
him like a shock. He now realized, he said to himself, 
why he was so conscious that he must return to the 
valley without delay. He was informed that the body 
of the trader had already been taken to the home. And 
now, while he was greatly relieved to know that Bar- 
bara was safe from all personal harm, he felt that his 
place was at her side. Beside, while the Major was 
recounting to him the scenes and incidents of the great 
struggle, he began to regret that he himself had lost 
the opportunity of being one of the victors. 

“I regret exceedingly. Major, that I was not able 
to have been with you sooner. I thought I was doing 
my best to reach the Fort Friday night ; and possibly 
but for my own carelessness would have been of the 
number who so valiantly defended the place and won 
the victory.” 

“Well, the fault was not yours. Lieutenant. You 
were performing a service as essential as that of being 
here fighting. Your work had to be done by some 
one. ” 

“Possibly. Still, I cannot but feel that my mission 
as a soldier, as I had marked it out, has failed, almost 
completely, and that it has been filled in with a lot of 
useless hairbreadth escapes and captures!” 


348 


BARBARA : 


“What a varied experience you have had surely,” 
said the Major, after Beveridge had related to him the 
incidents of his capture by the Indians on Saturday 
morning, and of his release by Lone Arrow. “First you 
are saved from almost certain death, at the hands of 
the Indians, or by drowning, by a most interesting 
young woman; and now again, when you fall into the 
hands of the red-skins, the second time, you are 
rescued by one of their own .number. And then your 
last ride! What more of excitement would you ask to 
make your mission as a soldier complete?” 

“Well, if you call such incidents as these successes, 
then I have not considered correctly the true life of a 
soldier, that is all. ” 

“All that any soldier can do, Lieutenant, is to per- 
form his duty as it comes to him, and then abide the 
results, let them be whatever they may. One finds 
this line marked out or fitted for him, while another 
drops into some other channel. They must all be 
filled — each place. You sought out the duties of the 
scout. It brought its excitements and dangers, while 
it was a necessity. Some one had to do it. You were 
the man. And, while you have not been killed and 
buried in a soldier’s grave, for the life of me, I cannot 
see what else you can ask.” 

“Perhaps I should be satisfied, but I am not,” 
replied the Lieutenant, in a meditative mood. “I 
shall have to be, probably.” 

Securing leave of absence from the Fort, for he had 
told the commander what his desire was, late in the 
afternoon, he started out for the Beaumont home, 
which he felt must now be desolate, indeed. On the 


BARBARA: 


349 


way, near the mission house, he met Father Jacquese, 
and together they wended their way to the house of 
mourning. From the priest he learned the particulars 
of the sad affair, and of the stay of the people at the 
mission house. 

“Not only is Barbara in deep sorrow over the death 
of the father, but she is as well filled with fear. for the 
grief- stricken wife and mother,” said the priest, as 
they walked along, and to the inquiries of Beveridge. 

“Is there no one with them in their great grief?” 
he asked. 

“Oh, yes, my son; kind friends are doing their best 
to soften the blow ; but that does not give back the 
dead. When the battle was over, and the wife had 
gone to the home, only to hear of the death of her hus- 
band, she went into a swoon, from which she has not 
yet recovered, and I fear never will.” 

Barbara saw them coming and met them at the 
porch; and what more natural than for the Lieutenant 
to take her in his arms and whisper words of love and 
consolation to her. 

“My dear Barbara, at last, after a desperate strug- 
gle, I am with you once more. And, now, my own 
sweetheart, let me do all, and whatever I can, to help 
bear the burdens of your great sorrow.” 

“Oh, my Lieutenant, you cannot know how glad I 
am that you have come to me. We all began to fear 
that you, too, had been killed in some way! Are you 
ill?” she asked, looking him in the face. 

“Barbara, dear, my great love for you, and the 
sincere friendship of Lone Arrow, are all that have 
enabled me to reach you, even now, as late as it may 


350 


BARBARA: 


seem. But for Lone Arrow, I fear my fate was sealed. 
Now, that I am with you, let me share your sorrows. 
Let me comfort you as much as may be in my power. " 

“Your coming is all the more joy if you have been 
compelled to pass through dangers to get here. 
Greater grief has never come to us here in the valley. 
He was but my foster father; yet a nobler man I have 
never known. He fell doing what he considered his 
duty, in a noble cause.” Again she asked: “Are you 
well. Lieutenant?” 

Just then the Reverend Father came to them, and 
taking a hand of each in his, he said in a soft, tender 
voice : 

“Lieutenant, your coming is most opportune, and 
none too soon. Barbara will need all the comforting 
we can give her. I fear it will not be long before the 
dear mother must follow the father.” 

“Oh, do not say so. Reverend Father. The one 
present great grief is already too much. How can I 
stand more?” 

“Look to the Heavenly Father, my child. In Him 
there is comfort. In Him will you find a true friend. 
Prepare your mind for the worst. The Lord’s will 
must be done, and we. His humble creatures, must 
submit. In this great sorrow comes that destiny that 
shapes our ends and aims, in spite of all we may do. 
The dear mother could not abide here without the 
husband. ” 

“Come, my dear Barbara, let us seek a little fresh 
air. It will do you much good.” The Lieutenant 
himself felt the need of it. 

And so saying, Beveridge led her out into the cool 


BARBARA: 


351 


night air, and with an arm about her waist, tried to 
console her troubled heart, and if possible, for a few 
moments, divert her thoughts to something else. He 
related to her the circumstances of his efforts to reach 
the valley late Friday night;. of his losing his way, or 
his mind, he could not for a certainty say which ; and 
of his capture. In a most graphic manner he told of 
his rescue by Lone Arrow, omitting altogether, at that 
time, the details of their bloody work. While he 
believed it all to have been justifiable on their parts, 
indeed unavoidable, if they were to save their own 
lives, and her medal; still, he had a sort of delicacy in 
telling her, now, of the affair. Not a word did he say 
of his own afflictions. But his praise of Lone Arrow, 
and of his determined efforts in his behalf, were so 
full of glowing thanks, that Barbara, in her gratitude, 
exclaimed: 

“Indeed, am I well repaid now, for all the little 
kindnesses I may in the past have shown him and his 
people. All of them, little things; but now I know 
they were not forgotten.” 

Kind friends and Father Jacquese, the only medical 
adviser in the valley, did all in their power to save 
the life of the heart-broken wife; but, as the first 
beams of the morning sun came up over the Blue 
Banks, to lighten the valley for another day, the tired 
spirit took its flight to join that of her life companion. 
^ Mass and a requiem for their souls were said. 
Their bodies were followed to the brow of the hill, 
where it juts out abruptly into the valley, and there the 
remains were consigned to earth, to await the coming 
of that last glorious morning, when all shall be called 


352 


BARBARA: 


before that Great White Throne, to "account for, and 
receive credit with, the deeds done on earth. 

On the same hill, beneath the shade of the same 
tree, a great spreading oak, where the Beaumonts 
were buried, years before had been laid the body of 
the Indian woman, who had brought Barbara to their 
home. And there, in the silence and peace of the 
valley, with all the mysteries of their lives, they were 
left, forever. 

Thus far Beveridge had been able to conceal from 
Barbara his own physical condition. Several times 
after his arrival she had made inquiries of him, and 
on each occasion he had been able to evade a reply. 
He was yet under the care of the surgeon; in fact, 
was reported on the sick list and unfit for duty. But 
he said to himself, “Barbara has enough to worry her 
mind, and I shall not add my afflictions to them. His 
naturally strong constitution was standing him well 
in hand, while his heretofore correct methods of living 
were enabling him to rapidly overcome his injuries. 
Yet, for all this, the surgeon had told him he must 
cut short his army career, and repair to his home, 
before he would ever fully recover. And for this 
reason it was that he was able to spend so much of his 
time with Barbara. 

One morning several days after the events that 
have been related, had transpired, when the Lieuten- 
ant was talking with Barbara concerning the Fort 
and its affairs, he mentioned the fact that a young 
Sergeant had come over from Fort Meigs the evening 
before with a squad of troopers, who, from his conver- 
sation, must be familiar with the people in the valley. 


BARBARA : 


353 


He did not know his name, but from the description 
he gave of him, and from what he reported him to 
have said, Barbara at last replied : 

“Why, Lieutenant, that must be Sergeant Bates, 
who was here the greater part of last winter. And if 
it is, then he is the one particular friend of Jannice. 
If it should prove to be him, then she will be the 
happiest mortal on earth. When did you say he came?" 

“Late yesterday afternoon. It seems to me now 
as if he was one who had been anxious to accompany 
me on my ride to Seneca Town several weeks ago; but 
for some reason he was not detailed." 

The next time they were together, Barbara told 
him of Jannice’s happiness. “It was indeed Sergeant 
Bates, who had come over from Fort Meigs with the 
troopers. He called on Jannice last evening, and now 
she is as happy as she well can be. " 

“Well, God bless them," said Beveridge. “They 
can be no happier than I wish them to be. Their 
happiness cannot detract from ours; and I know mine 
is almost perfection. To be with you now, and know 
there is no reason why I should leave, is all I can 
ask." 

“Jannice is indeed a very dear girl. I, too, can 
well rejoice at any pleasure that may come to her. 
She tries so hard to make others happy, that she is 
deserving of all she can obtain in this dull life." 

All this was a most complete surprise to Beveridge. 
In the midst of his own great joy, when he had been 
fortunate enough to be in the valley, he had never 
stopped to think that out of it all possibly some one 
else was obtaining pleasures as well as himself. When 

23 . . . _ _ , 


354 


BARBARA ; 


next he met Sergeant Bates at the Fort, he asked 
him: 

“Do you think of locating here in the valley. Ser- 
geant?” 

“Really, sir, I cannot say as to that. There are 
some quite attractive features about the Fort, but my 
command is still located at Fort Meigs. And, beside, 
I am not particularly fond of trapping for a living.” 

“And still,” said Beveridge, “there are some rare 
specimens to be caught around here — if you look for 
them. And I understand you have found one of them.” 

The Sergeant gazed at him with a most peculiarly 
puzzled and inquiring look. And not until the smiles 
began to play over the face of the Lieutenant, did he 
seem to comprehend what he was driving at. Then, 
with just a tinge of a blush, as if his heart secret had 
really been discovered, he replied : 

“Well, yes; there are some, but, if I have been 
rightly informed, you no doubt imagine that the best 
specimens have already been trapped.” 

“Probably; and I don’t know as I can blame you 
for taking the very next best there is left in the valley. 
You see, I have been here before you, and, of course, 
having first choice, I naturally took the best that was 
to be found. And it has proven such an attraction 
ever since as to impel me on, and has drawn me back 
here whenever opportunity has occurred, or an excuse 
for coming could be made.” 

“I am sure, Lieutenant, that I wish you the same 
measure of success that I, myself, am desirous of 
obtaining. ” 

^ After that the two men became quite social in 


BARBARA : 


355 


their friendship, and exchanged their knowledge of 
each other whenever the opportunities offered. The 
Sergeant told the Lieutenant of his home and people 
in Virginia, and why he had been so anxious to 
accompany the troopers over into the Sandusky val- 
ley. And the Lieutenant in turn had been as confi- 
dential, and told of his home and people in Kentucky, 
and how he chanced to first visit the Lower Sandusky 
region. The result of it was, that before they had 
known each other twenty-four hours, the Lieutenant 
had promised that he would interest himself in the 
Sergeant’s behalf, and persuade the Major to ask for 
the transfer of Bates to the troops at the Fort. 

This pleased the Sergeant, and before the Lieuten- 
ant had left for his home in Kentucky, he had the sat- 
isfaction of knowing that for some time to come 
Jannice and her Sergeant would be permitted to enjoy 
each other’s company, at least until the troops at the 
Fort should leave the valley for good, if the two of 
them did not conclude to spend their lives together, 
there, or elsewhere. 

Lieutenant Beveridge went over to the now desolate 
home of the Beaumonts every day. Beside Jannice, 
he was Barbara’s almost constant companion. He 
stopped at the mission house one afternoon, when on 
his way for one of these visits, and feeling that the 
priest was the only remaining friend of the family to 
whom he could talk in confidence, he told him of his 
great love for Barbara. He expressed to him his 
earnest desire to make her his wife, now and at once ; 
the more especially now, as there were none left to 
protect her. He related to the priest the history of his 


356 


BARBARA ; 


people in Kentucky, and of his ability to provide for a 
wife, and give her a happy and comfortable home. 
To all of it the Reverend Father listened with much 
attention, and when he was done, said: 

“Lieutenant, you will pardon me, but of your 
family I already know much, as well as of yourself. 
Your attachment for Barbara I have been aware of for 
some time. That, in my mind, was almost inevitable, 
from the day you were taken to her home. For her 
good, and the great affection I have always had for 
her, I have already taken the liberty to learn all I 
could of your life, and of your people. In all, I am 
much pleased. You have succeeded, my son, I believe, 
in winning the love of a most noble woman; one I 
know to be worthy of you, and, I trust that you may 
prove worthy of her. “ 

“I am sure I am grateful to you for the interest 
you have shown in my behalf. And now, let me ask: 
would there be any wrong, any great moral wrong, or 
harm, aside from a seeming undue haste, in my mar- 
riage to her, now — within a few days? My love for 
her, you say you are aware of. I have only to say 
that my desire for this early union is not altogether 
one of a hasty desire on my part, but as well for her 
protection and good name. Her loneliness, without a 
single relative to turn to, and my earnest desire to 
always be near her, means much, and cannot be, 
unless as her husband, without bringing some reproach 
upon her good name; and of that I am most jealous. 
You understand me, I hope, and will no doubt appre- 
ciate the motive I have, and my great love for Bar- 
bara. ’ ' 


BARBARA : 


357 


“Youth is always impetuous,” said the priest. 

In you, the soldier, as well as in others.” That was 
his first reply. Then, after a pause, he continued: 
”N — o; there can be no real wrong in it. To some it 
might appear as in undue haste, so soon after her 
great bereavement. Under different circumstances it 
would not be the correct thing to do. As it is, why, I 
believe I should advise it. And since you ask me, 
and give some of the reasons you do, I should say it 
would be for the best. To be frank with you, as 
you have been with me, let me say to you — the Beau- 
monts were not the parents of Barbara; and, that who 
are, I am as frank to say, I do not know. Nor does 
any one here in the valley. She was brought to their 
home long years ago, when a very small child, by a 
woman of the Seneca tribe. Just where they had 
found her, or from what section of the country the 
child had been taken, I cannot say; nor did the woman 
who brought her know. The death of the squaw, 
while at the Beaumont home, and the close-mouthed 
nature of the Indians, left us no clue to go by ; and 
Barbara has been known, all her life, as the daughter 
of the Beaumonts. She had been stolen or captured 
by Indians, somewhere; but not by the Senecas, 
according to their story. She comes, without a doubt 
in my mind, from noble people. She is, herself, a 
grand, ambitious woman; and had she been reared in 
her proper sphere in life, would have made a mark in 
the circle of her acquaintance. Her love for her foster 
parents was deep and strong. They were all she ever 
knew; and they in turn lavished on her all the affec- 
tion of their natures,” 


358 


BARBARA : 


Lieutenant Beveridge hung on to every word the 
priest uttered, drinking them in with all their purpose 
and meaning, and with an earnestness that led the 
man to really say more than he had set out to, and to 
speak of a subject he had never mentioned to any one, 
save the Beaumonts. 

“Can you tell me anything more concerning her 
strange history?” asked Beveridge, when the priest 
had ceased to speak farther. 

“No, that is all I know, and beside yourself and 
Barbara, I am the only one living that knows that 
much. Time may reveal more; yet I fear not. You 
have her talisman. Can you read it? Can you pene- 
trate its mysteries— its meaning? If so, then you have 
something to go by, and it may tell you more than any 
living soul can.” Then, after a pause he continued: 
“No, I cannot tell more. If I could I would; for her 
sake, and for her satisfaction ; not for yours, nor any 
one’s else. ” 

And so in a maze of mysteries, more strange than 
ever, the Lieutenant soon after left the priest and 
wended his way toward the Beaumont home, to meet 
Barbara. She was growing more cheerful as the days 
passed by, since the time of her double bereavement; 
and when they were once more seated on the banks of 
the river, beneath the shade of the great grape vine, 
he once more broached a subject always uppermost in 
his mind. 

“Barbara, dear,” he began, “it was here I gave 
you the love ring of my mother. It was here you gave 
into my care and keeping the only token you had. It 
was here, too, after a lapse of almost a year, that we 


BARBARA : 


359 


renewed our vows of love, and you promised at some 
future time to be my bride. Can you not now find it 
in your heart to give into my care and keeping, your 
own precious self, as you have the love token? Say 
that I shall wait no longer; but that I may claim you 
as my wife. ” 

“Oh, mon cher! My Lieutenant! You do not 
know how sorely my very soul is being tried! Be- 
tween the love I have and the duty I owe ! How can 
I answer, and answer right? How can I be true to all? 
It is so hard. I do not know now what 1 should say! 
Full well do I know what I would desire to say; but 
then comes the other thought." 

“Then say ‘y®s, ’ Barbara. Say that you will 
become my wife; and thus give to me the right to care 
for you — to be with you, now, and always, as your 
husband. Take my name, and then I can be with 
you, at your side, and no harm can be said. You know 
I love you ; and I am content to believe you love me 
in turn. Be my wife, and go with me to my home in 
Kentucky ; there to live a new life ; there to forget 
your sorrows, and I hope, be happy forever." 

“Would it be right? Right to those dear souls? 
To those who now rest in peace? I owe them much. 
For they cared for me when there was none to claim 
me. Took me from a life that would have been worse 
than serfdom. They took me into their hearts and 
their home ; and did more for me than in my wild nature 
I was deserving of, perhaps. Let me tell you all my 
life, Lieutenant ; tell you how little I really know of 
myself; tell you all that I, or any one else, can tell; 
and then, it may all seem different to you." 


360 


BARBARA : 


She would have gone on, and, no doubt, have 
repeated what the priest had already told him. But 
Beveridge checked her with a fond and loving kiss, 
full upon her tempting lips; and taking her in his 
strong embrace, said to her, in deepest earnestness: 

“No, not now, my dear Barbara; some other time. 
Already do I know much of your sorrowful life. In 
the future, when you are my wife, and we are away 
from these surroundings, and when you feel like again 
going over all this, as in memory it comes to you; 
then, my dearest, you may sit, as now, beneath the 
great magnolia trees on the old Beveridge homestead, 
and tell to me the story of the life that you, nor I, nor 
any one else, can now penetrate. Not now, my sweet- 
heart. . I know all I care to. I know I love you, and 
that is enough for me. And for the rest, I ask no more, 
now, and forever; only as you may wish to speak of it, 
in the years to come. ’ ’ 

“But, of the others? About those who have done 
so much for me. If they were alive, and would 
speak?” 

“Barbara, dear, you can do them no good by lead- 
ing a lonely life; in living here in the valley alone. 
Your happiness was their first consideration when 
living. It was their first joy. Would it be less so 
now, if they could speak? Beside, Father Jacquese 
believes it should be so; that there would be no wrong 
in it, to them, nor to any one.” 

“Have you, then, spoken to him on the subject?” 

“To whom else could I go, now, Barbara? Is he 
not your true friend? Has he not always been? 
Surely, to him should I go, knowing as I do, he would 


BARBARA : 


361 


advise you to do no wrong. And he says, under all 
the circumstances, it should be, and he advises it. 
Our loves must now make the world appear brighter 
than it does at present. It can. Give me your full 
love and confidence. Be my true wife, and I will 
labor alwa 3 ^s to make you happy.” 

‘‘Oh, my Lieutenant, you have my love. No 
longer can I conceal it; nor shall I try. To love you 
is to me to live as in a heaven of joy. It is my only 
happiness, and has been, since, oh, I know not when. 
And if the Father believes there is no wrong, then, 
shall I be yours, in very truth, as I have been in my 
heart and soul, all these long, weary months. To 
you, now do I belong! Take me as your wife, and I 
shall be, oh, so happy. I have been yours, in spirit, 
since the long ago afternoon, when you came down, 
over the Blue Banks, and said, ‘Howl’ tome. Take 
me, and I am yours, forever!” 

‘‘God bless you, my own sweetheart, my Barbara. 
May I always prove worthy of your love and confi- 
dence. May I be able to make your life as happy as 
1 now hope to. And if I can, I will brush away from 
out your mind all the sorrows and all the doubts that 
now surround it!” 

Then, rising to his feet, he took her in his arms, 
folded her to his breast, and with both her arms about 
his neck, he called her: 

‘‘My own, dear, sweetheart, Barbara!” 

‘‘Oh! Mon Dieu! Vous r7te siirprenez ; mais il est 
egal! 1 have seen nothing as yet; but I shall if you 
do not hurry up!” said a sweet voice, back of the grape 
vine, half in French, and half in broken English. 


362 


BARBARA: 


Both Barbara and the Lieutenant at once recognized 
it as that of Jannice. Releasing herself from his 
embrace, Barbara went to Jannice, and taking her in 
her arms, as Beveridge had just held her, she said to 
her: 

“And you have been playing the spy, have you? 
And what of good did you hear of yourself?” 

“Not any! It was all for you! Because you are 
une petite egoite!" said Jannice, still full of embarrass- 
ment. Then turning, she said to Beveridge: “You 
must not blame me, Lieutenant. Forgive me, both 
of you, mes cheres. But, really, as I spoke so soon as 
I heard you, what else could I do? I was afraid to 
run away; for then would you say, ‘Jannice was a bad 
girl!’ And I would not have liked that! Oh, I saw 
nothing! I only heard it all! Oh, no; not all, but a 
part of it all ! And oh, mes cheres, it was all so very 
nice, that then I must speak, before I shall hear some 
more!” 

“It is all right, Jannice,” said Beveridge, and he 
was blushing as hard as Barbara. “If you saw, or if 
you did not, it makes no difference; for I believe Bar- 
bara would have told you, any way. None of us wish 
to keep our loves or our sorrows to ourselves. We 
must tell them, to enjoy them. Now, I shall go up 
to the Fort, very soon, and tell Major Croghan that I 
have fallen in love with the prettiest woman in the 
valley, and that we are to be married ” 

“Don’t you dare to!” said Barbara, as she put her 
hand over his mouth, and for the instant shut off his 
words. Then she continued, “Please, Lieutenant; 
Jannice does not care to hear any declarations of love !” 


BARBARA : 


363 


“Oh, doesn’t she!” said the young lady for herself. 
“Just send to me my Sergeant, and then see if I do 
not love those declarations!” 

With two such women it was a very easy matter 
for Beveridge to find a topic beside love to talk about, 
and the consequences were they held him spellbound 
for the next hour or two with their small and ever 
changing thoughts on life and incidents in the valley, 
of the recent struggle, and of what was possible in 
the future — conversation, much of which seldom 
interests a man, unless it is indulged in, either by his 
own sweetheart, or some one’s else, whom he is trying 
to be entertaining to, with a special reference to 
estranging her from her present alliance. The latter 
was, of course, not the thought with the Lieutenant. 
Yet he sat there and listened to the sweet mixture of 
French and English, indulged in by the two, the 
accentuation of which can in no way or manner be so 
properly understood and appreciated as when heard. 
He felt as if he were in a bower of enchantment, where 
love and supreme happiness must hold high revelry 
forever. He had at last won the consent of Barbara 
to become his bride. His thoughts flowed along a crys- 
tal stream of peace, not easily described — all so smooth 
and soothing to his mind and brain, when he com- 
pared his present situation and prospects with those of 
but a few days ago, when bound and helpless, he was 
held a captive by the savages, deep in the forest; when 
no friend seemed near, and when hope was all but 
gone, and life despaired of. 

In this happy mood, Beveridge sat for an hour and 
more, an altogether passive listener, enjoying the 


364 


BARBARA : 


freedom of thought and talk of the two, wondering 
what the one would do without the other, and the sort 
of existence Jannice would endure when the compan- 
ion of her life and all its joys was taken away and 
transferred to his home in Kentucky. 

At last, when the day was well gone, they arose 
and went to the Beaumont home, and there, at the 
porch the ladies bid him an au revoir, and he went his 
way up to the Fort, and did almost exactly as he said 
he would — told the Major of his engagement, of his 
intention of marrying, and if possible, of returning to 
his home as soon as permission could be obtained, to 
spend his honeymoon, and to recover from the hard 
usage he had received at the hands of his Indian 
captors. 

“And yet. Lieutenant, you are the man who but 
the other day was bemoaning his ill luck as a soldier. 
And here you are — captured again, the third time. 
You seem to walk right into these troubles, with your 
eyes wide open! Well! well! You have my blessing, 
as well as my commiseration, with a hope that I and 
all the boys may be honored with an invitation to the 
wedding, if it occurs any ways soon.” 

“Thank you. Major Croghan. I shall only ask, 
now that since the prospects for fighting, and of my 
being captured, are about over, and as there is little 
possibility of my getting into any further trouble, 
just at present, 1 be permitted to carry all the happi- 
ness I have found here in the valley, and transplant it 
in my home in Kentucky. ” 

“Really, Lieutenant, you are asking a great deal! 


BARBARA ; 


365 


Who do you suppose will care to take your place in 
all this being captured? Certainly, I can assure you, 
the men are few who will wish to take the chances in 
that sort of warfare. This jumping off precipices, 
being captured, and only by the strangest chances, 
being rescued — well, you see, another man might not 
have the good luck that has followed you. However, 
I think you need a rest. The last siege you had with 
the Indians appears to have completely upset you. If 
there is any way in which I may be able to aid you, 
call on me, and I am at your command.” 

And that day, a week after, in the presence of 
many witnesses, among them the commander of the 
Fort, who gave the bride away, the ceremonies were 
performed, and the words pronounced, by Father 
Jacquese, that made Lieutenant George Beveridge 
and Barbara Beaumont husband and wife. 

Jannice acted as bridesmaid, and performed that 
function with all the grace imaginable; while, at Bev- 
eridge’s most earnest request, Sergeant Bates acted as 
his best man. And it would have taken something 
more skilled than a professor of mental calculation to 
have decided which of the four were the happier, so 
far as outward appearances were concerned — Bever- 
idge and his bride, or Bates and his desired. Indeed, 
it was a happy party all around, and the first that had 
occurred with such particular services, in the old mis- 
sion house, in the memory of the “oldest inhabitant,” 
for they had that particular class even at that early 
day. 

The wedding feast, though unostentatious, was 
spread, at Beveridge’s request, on the banks of the 


366 


BARBARA: 


river, beneath the great spreading vine, where all the 
lads and lassies of the neighborhood congregated that 
afternoon and drank to the health of the young 
and beautiful bride, “Barbara of Old Lower San- 
dusky." 


CHAPTER TWENTY. 


“Visions of childhood! Stay! O, stay! 

Ye were so sweet and wild! 

And distant voices seemed to say 
‘It cannot be. They pass away. 

Other themes demand thy lay; 

Thou art no more a child.’ ” 

— Longfellow, 


It was not a brilliant social affair, that wedding of 
Beveridge and Barbara; but it was a most joyous 
one — and with no “entangling alliances,” on either 
side. It was one of pure love. Both were possessed 
of that supreme happiness that permits the ones 
enjoying it to float about, much after the fashion of 
the thistle-down, drifting hither and thither, with no 
thought or care when or where it may alight. 

So with the Lieutenant and Barbara. They 
drifted here, and they wandered there, full of that 
happiness the children of God must have experienced 
ere the serpent had come to their temptation, and they 
were at last driven from the Garden of Eden. Their 
honeymoon was spent roving and rowing along the 
banks of the Sandusky river, a stream that all through 

367 


368 


BARBARA: 


their lives would fill their naemories with recollections 
of some of the strangest incidents that ever transpired 
in the history of the valley; a stream, along whose 
banks, for years untold, had been enacted some of the 
most marvelous of mysterious romances; the glamours 
and griefs of which still linger in the memories of 
those who are the descendants of those early days. 

At last, after a time, when they began to feel that 
the sterner realities of life were required of them, as 
well as the rest of mankind, they began to gather 
together all the many belongings of Barbara about 
the now quiet home of the Beaumonts, and to prepare 
them for shipment to Kentucky. It was with many 
sighs, and frequent tears, that these preparations were 
made. For desolate and forsaken, as it soon would 
seem, with its bare walls and rough floors, all shorn 
of their rude and rustic adornments, the old place 
must ever be filled with the echoings of many. child- 
hood memories — of joys and anticipations, as well as 
sorrows and disappointments; recollections of a 
strange and lonely life, all crowded full with so much 
of mystery. All of it, now, in a measure to be left 
behind. All to remain here in the dear old valley 
home. Yet, they knew full well, these thoughts, cen- 
tered as they ever would be, here in the old log cabin, 
would needs go with them, and never be banished 
from their minds. That the home would decay and sink 
into the earth, but the reveries that clustered about it 
of the long ago, would day after day, all come up and 
pass in review, like phantom ships on the magic sea 
of memory’s brightest mirror — minglings of all that 
was joyous and happy, as well as that which had 


BARBARA : 


369 


passed, of gloom and sadness, so commingled 
together as to make their separation impossible. 
Tender ties, they might be, of a lifetime’s duration; 
all must be severed, never to be renewed again on 
earth. 

It was a pleasing task, this preparing for a new 
and a happier life, in an unknown world; and yet with 
it came these reveries of the past; a sadness and a joy, 
so well balanced that it was hard, at times, to say 
which had the mastery. 

They spent their last day in the valley in visiting 
all their many haunts about the banks of the Sandusky 
river, each in a silent way, without words giving 
expressions to their thoughts, bidding all a last and 
lingering farewell. They were to leave in the early 
morning for their home in Kentucky, and what more 
natural than that their last moments should be given 
over to a visit at the top of the Blue Banks, and that 
they should ride there in the little birch bark canoe, 
the one Lone Arrow had given to Barbara, and which 
of all her belongings she had insisted must accompany 
her to her new” home, to be kept as a souvenir of her 
girlhood days, and as a memento of her Indian friend. 

And it was while there, at the top of the high hill, 
that the young chief came to them bearing in his 
hands a most beautifully wrought wigwam blanket, 
made up in the most brilliantly colored hues; and in 
which something was rolled. 

Deepest sorrow was depicted in every feature of 
his bronzed face, showing plainly enough that some 
Indians do have feelings. He, with several of his 
young braves, had stood on the outer circle of spec- 

24 


370 


BARBARA : 


tators and witnessed the marriage of Barbara, but 
none of them had approached the happy couple. And 
now this was the first time he and the Lieutenant had 
met since that memorable night, out there in the 
woods, along the main trail, or since their mad and 
furious ride to the Fort. With an apparent effort the 
Indian controlled himself, in an attempt to gather in 
his mind words with which to express his thoughts, 
and then he said: 

“You going away, now. Lone Arrow, and all his 
people, they will miss the White Flame. They will 
all be glad if she is happy in her new home, away off. 
Lone Arrow, and all his braves, they want to be 
remembered, and these are their tokens of friendship. 
You take them? Good!” 

So saying, he partly unrolled the blanket, taking 
from it a most beautifully ornamented pair of mocca- 
sins, and a necklace made from the teeth of the black 
wolf (then so plentiful in the Northwest, and for which 
the senior chief of the neutral nations had been 
named). These he handed to Barbara, who with a 
voice filled with emotion, said as she took them : 

“Lone Arrow, you have been almost as a brother 
to me, and in the coming years we shall both of us 
remember you, and all your people, with the most 
tender feelings. It will never be possible for either 
of us to forget you, nor the many brave deeds you 
have performed for us. ’’ She reached out and took his 
hand, and although she would have said more, her 
feelings were too great, and she only added: “God 
bless you. Lone Arrow.” 

“And these are for you,” the Indian continued. 


BARBARA ; 


371 


turning quickly to the Lieutenant, as he finished 
unrolling the blanket, and handed to him the sword, 
belt and pistols he had dropped, just there, the after- 
noon when he was being pursued by the Tecumtha 
Indians. “Lone Arrow saved them for you. The 
blanket — you both keep. You need it, some time, for 
little papoose.” 

And in an instant, even before Beveridge could 
form words for a reply, he was gone. Took his way 
directly into the woods, toward his home, down the 
hill, to the north. And they never saw him again. 

That evening they spent at the home of Jannice, 
and in the morning bid her and her people an adieu. 
Both she and Barbara were deeply affected at the 
parting, and when the final moment came, they gath- 
ered each other in their arms and wept tears of true 
and earnest friendship. It was a parting, perhaps, 
forever; yet both promised the other, over and over, 
that they should meet again in the near future. And 
sighing, sobbing, and hoping, they parted, these two 
lifelong friends, at the foot of the hill, with aching 
voids in both their hearts. 

They called at the old mission house,' on their way 
to the Fort, and bid their true friend and faithful 
adyiser a “Good-bye.” It was Barbara’s favorite 
expression; and she said: “I know I shall meet you 
again.” The Father talked to them long and sin- 
cerely, giving them much good spiritual advice and 
fatherly counsel for their future lives. It could not 
be concealed that he was deeply affected at the 
thoughts of parting with Barbara. He endeavored 
with all his powers to hide his feelings, but his waver- 


372 


BARBARA: 


ing and tremulous voice spoke them, in spite of him- 
self. His desire was to not add to her regrets at her 
leave-taking. 

At last, their stay could be prolonged no farther, as 
a conveyance was waiting to take them to Seneca 
Town, and when they arose to go; the priest excused 
himself, stepped into a small closet, and returned bear- 
ing in one hand a casket, and in the other a sealed 
package. Opening the first, as he set it down on his 
rude table, he said to Barbara: 

“It had been arranged, some time ago, by your 
foster father, that in the event of your marriage with 
the Lieutenant this casket and its contents were to be 
your wedding present; and it contains enough, in the 
shape of French francs and other valuables to keep 
you comfortable through many a day. Then,” he 
continued, as he placed the sealed package in her 
hands, “when he had returned from Canada, on his 
last trip, he brought this package and the casket and 
gave them to me, with full instructions for their final 
disposal. When he brought you and the mother here 
for safety, that Friday night before the battle, he 
said: ‘This package is first for the wife, and then, 
after her for Barbara. In the event of anything hap- 
pening to me, you are to deliver them as I have 
requested. The casket and its contents go to Barbara, 
and the sealed package of English pound notes to be 
the wife’s, the latter, or what is left, to be Barbara’s 
at the death of the wife. ’ Somehow, Beaumont was 
affected as I never knew him to be, before,” contin- 
ued the priest, “for when I attempted to cheer him up, 
and persuade him to still retain his valuables, he said: 


BARBARA : 


373 


*No, Father Jacquese, you do as I ask. If, after the 
battle, I am alive I will call for them. If not, then I 
know, as my most sincere friend, you will do as you 
have been asked. ’ 

“The father is g’one, and so, too, is the mother; 
and according to the last wishes of Beaumont, these 
and all their contents, are both yours. And although 
the one comes through great grief, I feel glad the pro- 
vision was made, and that through them both you will 
not have to go empty-handed to your new home. May 
it all do you as much good as I hope, is my earnest 
prayer. ’ ’ 

As he finished, Barbara laid the package on the 
casket, then turning to her husband, took his hand, 
and the two kneeling at the feet of the priest, she said: 

“Father Jacquese, for the last time, perhaps, give 
us a blessing, as to me you have so often in the past.” 

This was done; they both arose to their feet, 
pressed the hand of the man of God with a fervent 
zeal; then taking up the packages, Barbara handed 
them to her husband, took his arm, and she and the 
Lieutenant passed from the room, down the steps of 
the rude home, leaving behind, with bowed head, as 
true a friend as man and woman ever possessed— left 
him engaged in a silent prayer for their peaceful pres- 
ervation and a life of happiness. 

Wending their way to the Fort, after bidding the 
Major and Sergeant adieu, and after receiving a hearty 
cheer from the men of the garrison, they started on 
their way for Seneca Town. On their arrival there 
they were greeted with congratulations, and given 
many a good wish for their safe journey home. 


374 


BARBARA : 


“You will meet with no troubles on the way, Lieu- 
tenant,” said the commander. ‘‘There are no Indians 
in our rear, thanks to our noble scouts. The roads, 
although rough, are at their best at this season of 
the year. Any accommodations the army can afford 
you are at your service; all you have to do is to ask 
for them.” 

Before they left Beveridge was informed that his 
resignation had been acted on by the General, whose 
only regret was that the Lieutenant had been so badly 
used up in his last tussle with the Indians as to make 
the step necessary. From Seneca Town, in company 
with a detachment of troopers who went as a guard for 
a supply train, Beveridge and his bride proceeded on 
toward Cincinnati, and thence to Lexington. Both 
places were small, but they were large, indeed, com- 
pared to the environments of the little hamlet they had 
left behind on the banks of the Sandusky river. To 
Barbara, who was making her first visit to the outside 
world, they were marvelously wonderful. 

They reached Lexington in the afternoon, after 
several days of hard journey on the road. After wait- 
ing a few hours, a conveyance met them and they 
started for the plantation, which was about three miles 
out in the country. 

The home of the Beveridges was one of the oldest 
in the state, settled on in the very earliest days of the 
colonists, when the houses were built in a style more 
for comfort than for any real architectural beauty. It 
was a large stone building, standing back from the 
public road, on a slight elevation of ground, and was 
reached by a broad gravel drive, running up through 


BARBARA: 


375 


a great gate, beneath the boughs of immense magnolia 
trees, in whose branches the warbles of golden-winged 
orioles were heard day after day. All along the front 
of the house was one of those large welcome Southern 
porches, two stories high, the whole covered with a 
blooming vine. 

As they drove up and alighted, two portly colored 
men met them, and assisted them to the porch. The 
servants were overflowing with their salutations to the 
Lieutenant, grinning and bowing to the “missus,” 
and full of their expressions of pleasure at the “young 
massa’s” return home. Everywhere, from around 
every corner, peeped ebony faces, set with great white 
eyes of wonderment. One of the servants went 
ahead, opened the door, and ushered the Lieutenant 
and his bride into a large and spacious hall, and then 
threw open the door to the family room. 

With all this strange newness Barbara was filled 
with amazement, and clung close to her husband’s 
side. As they stepped into the room she saw in the 
dim glow of some sort of a light, a group of people 
coming toward them. First, she saw a most benevo- 
lent-faced, motherly woman ; then a venerable, gray- 
haired man, and beside them, the pearl of the planta- 
tion, “the little sister,” one of those extreme Southern 
beauties, for which Kentucky has always been noted. 

Barbara felt the arms of the woman embracing her, 
saw the father grasping the hand and arm of her hus- 
band, and heard him say: 

“My son! God bless you! We have you safe at 
home once more, and for good, I hope!” 

Then the mother, who had taken her almost bodily 


376 


BARBARA : 


into her embrace, was saying, as she kissed her most 
affectionately: 

“My daughter Barbara! My son’s wife! Welcome 
to our, and your future home. May God bless you, 
and make you always happy and contented!” 

Then she was gathered up in the arms of the father 
and given a genuine Southern hug; and from his 
embrace she escaped only to be received by the “little 
sister,” who was somewhat younger than herself, and 
in every feature the very counterpart of the brother, 
with all the softening feminine effects, a most beauti- 
ful brunette. 

It was all too much for Barbara. She was becom- 
ing bewildered, she feared, as she was the day when 
the Lieutenant had met her so unexpectedly beneath 
the grape vine. Turning to her husband, as she was 
released from the embrace of the sister, she put her 
arms lovingly about his neck, and as he took her in 
his arms, she exclaimed, in the fullness of her great 
joy: 

mon cher! Combie?ije suis heureux! My Lieu- 
tenant! You can never know how happy 1 am!” 


And here we are compelled to leave them, in all 
their loves and happiness; in the midst of that great 
hospitality which people of the “Blue Grass” region 
know so well how to dispense to the stranger who 
comes within the circle of their homes. 

Little more is to be told of all of those who were 
interested in the incidents herein related. In the 
spring of 1814, Barbara received a letter from her life- 


BARBARA: 


377 


long friend Jannice, in which she gave the date when 
she and Sergeant Bates were to wed, and that on 
their way to their new home in Virginia they would 
try to pay a visit to the Beveridge plantation. It also 
contained the sad information that about two months 
after the departure of Lieutenant Beveridge and Bar- 
bara from the valley, Lone Arrow had been found one 
morning, dead, on the top of the Blue Banks; and so 
far as they could understand from the letter, it was 
very near, if not quite, on the spot where they had last 
met him, and received from his hands his tokens of 
friendship. 

The marriage of Jannice and the Sergeant was the 
last F'ather Jacquese ever officiated at there in the 
valley. That of the Lieutenant and Barbara had been 
the first to occur at the old mission house. Those 
who had come to the valley before had either come as 
husband and wife, or had taken unto themselves 
Indian wives, after the custom of the tribes to which 
they chanced to belong. 

Those who remained behind in the valley, and had 
any sort of social intercourse with the man, said that 
after the death of the Beaumonts, and the marriage 
and departure of Barbara and the Lieutenant, Father 
Jacquese seemed to act and feel as if there was noth- 
ing left for him to cling to. He was, they said, to be 
seen frequently, of summer evenings, wandering near 
the old vacant Beaumont place, and along the banks 
of the stream, where he and his friends had spent so 
many happy hours together. But it was all too lonely 
for him; and when he could stand it no longer, he 
usked to be relieved of his charge, in the hopes that in 


378 


BARBARA : 


newer and stranger fields he might recoup his droop- 
ing spirits, and possibly regain his old-time vigor. If 
he did, was never known, as no word ever came back 
to the valley concerning him or his whereabouts. 


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE. 


“There are more strange things in heaven and earth, 
Horatio, than have been dreamed of in thy philosophy.” 

— Shakespeare, 


There is an island in the Ohio river, just below 
Merrietta, that formerly belonged to the territory of 
Virginia, known in history, and for years in all the 
school geographies of the country, as “Blennerhassett 
Island.” It was named so because soon after the close 
of the Revolutionary war for American independence, 
it was purchased directly from the Indians by a man 
named Hiram Blennerhassett. At the time Washing- 
ton made his trip down through the Great Northwest, 
in 1752, he visited the island, and was so struck with 
its natural beauties that on returning home he 
attempted to acquire a title to it (and possibly did) 
from the government. This title Blennerhassett pur- 
chased of Washington. Then, after much bickerings 
with the Indians, some of whom claimed a title to the 
land, he again purchased it from them; but not until 
considerable enmity had been created over the affair. 
And even then some of them felt that they had been 
wronged. 


379 


380 


BARBARA: 


Blennerhassett was said to have been the direct 
lineal descendant of an ancient Irish family of that 
name, whose seat was once at Castle Conway, in Kerry, 
Ireland, and where as the kings of that island they 
once reigned supreme. On the death of his father, 
this Hiram Blennerhassett inherited all the great 
estate that had for many years been entailed from 
father to son. For some political reasons never known 
in this country, Blennerhassett had been compelled to 
leave his native land, and for a time sought a refuge 
in England. While there he finished his course of 
studies, and was admitted to the bar of English law 
practice. In the meantime he had converted his 
estates in Ireland into English money, having disposed 
of the estate to a cousin ; and then he forever bade 
adieu to the Emerald Isle, and all the ties of his youth. 
While in England he became acquainted with, and 
finally married, a Miss Agnew, the grand-daughter of 
the British General Agnew, who was killed at the 
battle of Germantown, near Philadelphia, during the 
struggle for American independence. 

A few years after their marriage, and when a beau- 
tiful auburn-haired daughter had been born to them, 
they gathered together all their effects of personal 
property, and came to America, he as an exile, to seek 
and build a new home in the new wilderness of the 
young nation. They followed the trend of travel 
toward the Ohio country, intending to settle near Cin- 
cinnati, but while floating down the Ohio river, reached 
this island, landed, and at once decided to make it 
their future home, if it were possible to obtain posses- 
sion of it. 


BARBARA : 


381 


Having accomplished that object, he proceeded to 
build him a home, the elegance of which at that time 
was not known anywhere in all that region. Those 
who had the pleasure of visiting it, when it was in all 
its elegance and beauty, pronounced it not only the 
finest that was known for years west of the Alleghany 
mountains, but as well said it was one of the most 
hospitable in all the country. The wife, the thorough 
English lady, knowing all so well how to entertain, 
and the husband being in every sense of the word one 
of those great-hearted, generous souls — the perfect 
Irish gentleman — their genial influence and happy 
home circle were sought and enjoyed by many of the 
then great men of the country. The richest treasures 
of art adorned the interior of their peaceful abode ; the 
rarest of tropical plants filled great conservatories, 
while the native soil was made to blossom with the 
choicest of fruits and flowers. There, in the midst of 
all this happiness, surrounded by all that heart could 
wish for, the English-born daughter spent the first of 
her childhood days, the idol of the household, and 
blessed with every comfort money could provide. 

Among all the sorrows that finally came to the 
parents there in their island home, then or after (and 
they had many), none were so great as that when the 
child was drowned, devoured by wild beasts, or stolen 
by the Indians — they never for a certainty knew 
which was its fate. It had been left alone but a 
moment; the nurse and it at the time had wandered 
but a short way from one of the conservatories, on the 
side of the island nearest the shore; and when she had 
returned the child was gone. It had disappeared as 


382 


BARBARA : 


completely as if the ground had openeu and swallowed 
it. For a time the attendant could not but believe 
that it must be in the vicinity somewhere. Then, 
after a vain search all about the grounds, she went to 
the house, suspecting some one must have taken it 
there. The alarm was then given and became gen- 
eral. The island was gone over in every spot. Not a 
bush nor shrub but was looked about. Yet not a 
single trace of anything of it could be discovered. 

Great rewards in money were offered for its recov- 
ery, alive ; or for evidences of what its fate had been. 
But with no effect. Its disappearance was of the 
deepest mystery. And after long-continued search 
and inquiry, lasting through weeks and months, it was 
at last mourned as if it were dead. 

The next great misfortune that came to the family 
was when the treacherous Aaron Burr entered the 
home to destroy its peace and happiness, and to lure 
Blennerhassett into his intrigues against the govern- 
ment. Deceived by the blandishments of Burr, and 
his oily tongue, Blennerhassett engaged in what he 
believed to be a legitimate adventure, with no thought 
of insurrection or rebellion against the national 
powers, and was soon so completely in Burr’s influ- 
ence as to be unable to extricate himself when the 
expose came. Then, too, the wife had become so com- 
pletely infatuated with the blandishments of Burr, and 
the schemes and visions held out and pictured to their 
minds by him, that when the husband began to 
weaken, she put her hand to the purpose, and with her 
own personal efforts helped it along, going so far as to 
supervise the purchasing of provisions and supplies, 


BARBARA : 


383 


and seeing to loading them on boats; and then pre- 
paring to superintend the floating of them down the 
river. 

The government at last stepped in, confiscated the 
goods, and all their property; and in a few short 
months their once peaceful home became desolate and 
deserted. Its owners, with what little resources they 
could save (for Burr had managed to secure the most 
of all they had) with their sorrows and disgrace, 
migrated to the south, and there Blennerhassett 
attempted to engage in cotton raising. At that he 
failed most completely, in a very short time. It was a 
business he was in no way fitted for. 

His fortune gone, his heart broken, weighed down 
with his sorrows, he and his wife, with the remainder 
of their family, returned to England, hoping, no doubt, 
that in some way they might there retrieve their lost 
fortunes, and forget their griefs and disgrace. But 
their star was set, and ill luck seemed to follow them 
even there. In a short time the husband, completely 
broken down in spirits and health, sickened and died. 

Shortly after their departure from their island 
home, which had been taken possession of by the gov- 
ernment, when the house had been plundered by van- 
dals, the buildings were destroyed by fire, and the 
whole thing was wiped out of existence. 

Years after the husband had died, the wife 
returned to the United States once more, in the hope 
of obtaining from congress some sort of compensation 
for their destroyed property. But before relief came 
to her, through that ever slow and hesitating process, 
she, too, sickened and died, being in the meantime 


384 


BARBARA : 


provided for by friends who had known her in brighter 
and happier days. Previous to her death, in her old 
age, and when her mind was sadly clouded with the 
troubles she had endured, it was learned that the 
child, supposed to have been drowned, or devoured 
by wild beasts, had instead been carried off by Indians 
whom Blennerhassett had in some way wronged. 
And, it was thought, for almost a certainty, that she 
was then alive and well, and living in Kentucky. It 
was said, too, that the last hours of the mother, who 
had suffered so much, were made more peaceful and 
happy with the belief that her first-born was still 
living. But before a positive identification could be 
established, other than that which could be obtained 
through the possession of an ancient Irish medal, the 
tired spirit went out in death. 

It is all a sad, sad history, of a once happy and 
prosperous family, whose peace and life joys had been 
totally shattered and destroyed. And all through a 
revengeful Indian, and the traitorous Aaron Burr. 
But for him, and one sad wrong, done to the red man, 
what joys would eventually have come to them in 
their island home! 

Over it all, let the veil of past memories fall 
forever. 

THE END. 


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